Of Two Friends Against The World
by Vulcan Wolf
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Childhood friends, best friends, destined lovers, crime-solving crack-team, Army mates. Yes, you read that right: Army mates. Starts pre-Series 1, but catches up to the action fairly quickly. Here's my take on a stubborn little what-if in my head that's taken on a life of it's own! Vampire-AU! So please read and review, nothing belongs to me.
1. Point of Origin

Chapter One - Point of Origin

::

When Gregory Lestrade's desk-phone rang on the afternoon of 16 November, 2001, he barely glanced at the id-screen before he answered. He almost never checked his screen before he answered, it was usually someone he needed to talk to and _never_ someone who might otherwise call on his mobile, so when he answered, he wasn't thinking at all of his boyfriend.

"New Scotland Yard Homicide, Greg Lestrade." He answered mechanically, hoping to god it was a quick call. There was a pause on the other end and he groaned.

 _"Greg_ _ory_ _."_ Shit. He sat up, no longer tired.

"Mycroft?" He checked around for eavesdroppers, double-checked his id-screen, "Shit. What's wrong?" Mycroft Holmes _never_ called his desk-phone, hell, he almost never called while Greg was at work.

 _"Are you busy?"_

"Not...exactly. You never call this number, what's up?"

 _"It's Sherlock."_ Two words Greg had seriously hoped he would never hear from his boyfriend. They'd been friends since childhood, kept in touch through university, parted ways for a bit while they worked out their lives, and hooked up again about a year ago. They kept it quiet, their jobs would suffer if they came out openly about their relationship.

"What happened, Myc?"

 _"He hasn't been home in three weeks. He's...gone."_

"There's not a chance he would have jumped a flight to the States or elsewhere, is there? France or Spain, maybe?" Mycroft's little brother, younger by seven years, was flighty, impulsive, rude, and a fucking genius. He was already opening an inter-office messaging window on his computer and pulling up one of his OCU-AP contacts.

 _"I'm not sure, I wouldn't put it past him. You know I wouldn't ask if I thought I could handle this myself."_

"I'm already on it, Myc." He cradled the phone against his cheek and shoulder as he typed out a message to Susan Brealy, "Did he leave a note or anything?"

 _"I stopped by his flat on Montague Street, but he wasn't there and the landlord was less than helpful. And he hasn't been to Baker Street in almost a week."_

"Damn it, Sherlock!" Greg muttered, watching the messaging-window. Sherlock wouldn't have been at the Montague Street flat anyway, not without good reason. It was his absence from the Baker Street house that worried him more. Maybe he'd stop by when he had a chance and ask Martha Hudson if she'd seen her troubled tenant, or even risk going after Sherlock's long-time flat-mate for information.

 **Susan, sorry to bother you. Please be in your office. It's an emergency. – GLestrade**

 **I'm here. Just stepped in. What's the matter? – SBrealy**

 **Can you put word out, get a BOLO out to your guys at Heathrow and London City to keep an eye out for somebody? Or ask if they've seen him? – GLestrade**

 **Missing persons isn't your division, Greg. What's wrong? – SBrealy**

 **It's...Sherlock Holmes. He's been missing for three weeks. I want to make sure he hasn't ghosted. – GLestrade**

 **Holmes? Sure. Got a description of him? – SBrealy**

"God bless you, Susan." He muttered, "Mycroft?"

 _"Yes?"_

"What was Sherlock wearing the last time you saw him?"

 _"When I caught sight of him on CCTV a week-and-a-half a go, he was in jeans and a leather jacket."_

"Sweatshirt?"

 _"Yes."_

"Fine. Thanks. I'll get word to the Aviation Police, and then I'll hit the streets myself. Just stay where you are, alright?" He tapped out a new message to Susan with Sherlock's physical description and what he had been wearing the last time anyone had seen him, "If he's out there, he won't want to see you. Sherlock only disappears when he's in a fit. What happened?" His computer beeped at him and he saw that Susan had replied.

 **We'll find Sherlock Holmes, Greg. You tell Mycroft not to worry his pretty head. AP knows our business. If Sherlock slipped our nets, we'll track him, we have our ways. If he hasn't tried yet, we'll snag him. Have you tried sounding the streets? – SBrealy**

 **That's my next call. If I'm lucky, I won't get a bust. Damn! – GLestrade**

 **Breathe, Greg. – SBrealy**

He could see Susan laughing at her desk, not at him, but at the situations he got himself into being involved with the Holmes brothers.

 _"Father said something about university."_ He heard Mycroft

"I thought Sherlock was doing well in his classes?"

 _"When he's not high? He's a genius. He refuses to bother with "plebeian, inferior minds", and almost got himself kicked out of school for harassing teachers. If he surfaces, he'll walk for graduation. I made him promise me he would at least do that much."_

"Jesus Christ." Greg put his head down against the desk, "Am I a bad person for hating your brother sometimes?"

 _"No, that makes you human. My brother is a very, highly unlikeable person, even when he's sober and worse when he's high."_ Mycroft sounded tired, sad, and Greg wondered if he'd cried at all. Suddenly, Greg saw a flash of motion at the top of his vision and looked up.

"Hang on, Myc." He turned the phone so the conversation would be muffled as he gave his attention to Jackie Billingsly, his immediate boss, "Sorry, Jackie. What's up?"

"You need to go, you've got another one."

"Are you _serious_?" He groaned, "Where?"

"Cotton Row."

"Jesus." He signed off with Susan, who promised to keep him informed and asked that he do the same just in case he found Sherlock Holmes before AP did. "Mycroft? Sorry, I have to go."

 _"You know what to do if you find Sherlock."_ Mycroft said softly, _"_ Please _, please find my brother."_

"I will, I promise. If I have to book a ticket to New Mexico, I'll find Sherlock." He wasn't kidding. He hung up, already on his feet and shrugging into his jacket. Grabbing his radio and mobile, and yanking open his desk-drawer to grab his Glock, he wasn't going into a bust without the thing. Shoving it into the holster, he nodded at Jackie.

"Domestic troubles at home?"

"You could say that." He zipped up the hi-vis jacket, "Kind of got a missing-persons case on my hands. It would be a mix of really good luck and really, _really_ bad luck if I found him on this bust."

"Who's missing?"

"Sherlock Holmes hasn't been home or in contact with his family in three weeks. His brother saw him on CCTV about a week-and-a-half ago, but that was the last time. No idea where he is now."

"Christ, Greg."

"Tell me about it." He rolled his eyes.

"Did you ping AP?"

"Yes, ma'am." Greg headed for the door, Jackie at his side. She had been on him since he'd been promoted to Sergeant, and before when he'd been a constable. Normally he drove with a constable, but today he drove with Jackie. While they headed for the bust, followed by three other cars, he filled Jackie in on the current situation with Sherlock, they traded ideas on what might have set him off like that.

* * *

When they arrived at the den, Greg stared out at the flop-house, wondering how many people were in it at the moment. Intel said anywhere from six to twenty people could be inside. Dealers, users, buyers. "Shit. Will three cars be enough? If there's twenty people in there, this isn't going to be clean or easy." Without really thinking about it, he called for back-up over the radio and they waited another ten minutes for a few more cars and a prisoner-transport van. Better safe than sorry. Getting into the house was easy, they took the place by storm, and startled well over twelve people. He collared one kid, not even eighteen by the looks of him, and spun him around, "I'm looking for someone."

"W-what?!"

"I. Am. _Looking_. For someone." He showed a printout photograph of Sherlock Holmes, "Is this boy here right now?"

"Th-shit, that's Shezza! He's upstairs, man." The kid was shaking, higher than a kite and freaked out. Probably hallucinating, if Greg had to guess. He held the kid still and looked him over, flashing a pen-light torch in his eyes, measuring dilation of pupils and the racing pulse against his fingers.

"What did you take, kid?"

"X. Crack."

"You...what?!" Greg coughed, "You mixed Ecstasy with cocaine?!" This kid would die if Greg let him go. "How much?"

"Dunno, whatever they gave me."

"Who dealt you?"

"Ginger."

"Fuck. That smug bastard!" Greg grabbed his radio, holding the teenager up with one arm and a knee between the kid's legs as he leaned him against the wall, "This is Lestrade, I need someone to find Ginger and hold her. I need to know what she gave one of the users. What's your name?" He looked at his charge, who was about to OD in his arms, "Kid, your name!"

"Rocky."

"Find out what Ginger gave Rocky and get back to me! I'm going up for Holmes!" He belted his radio, slung a limp arm around his shoulders, and hauled Rocky upstairs, "Stay with me, Rocky, oh god don't do this. Where is Shezza?"

"Room at...th-the...back...house."

"That's it, Ginger is going away for the rest of her short life." Greg grunted, pulled off-balance halfway up the stairs when Rocky suddenly collapsed. "Shit." Heaving the kid over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, Greg got to the top of the stairs, laid Rocky against the wall in a sitting position, begged him to hold on, and ran to the back room at the end of the hallway, kicking the door in. The room was littered was dirty mattresses, most of them occupied. "Everybody get out! Now!" he yelled, sent six people running like rats. "Leave Rocky or I will break you like sticks, hear me?!" he snarled, knowing that panicked users and dealers would try to take Rocky with them. When the room cleared, the only one left was Sherlock Holmes, who had passed out on his mattress, wearing the same clothes Mycroft had seen him in last. Cursing his bad luck, Greg pressed two fingers to Sherlock's wrist. Maybe the kid was just sleeping, his pulse was steady. Greg shook the troubled genius by the shoulder.

"Sherlock. Holmes." He whispered, getting no response. "Shezza, man, wake up." Nothing. Hating himself for what he was about to do, he leaned back and slapped Sherlock hard enough to leave a mark. It had the desired effect of snapping Sherlock out of his stupor and Greg jumped back, on his feet in a flash and his Glock held out to ward off the half-drugged man at his feet, "Take it easy, Sherlock. I'm not here to hurt you."

"Hell of a way to treat a guy!" Sherlock snarled, spitting on the ground, "What the hell, Greg!"

"Sure picked a hell of a time to remember my name." He growled, "I wasn't looking for you when I showed up here."

"Wh-where's Myc?" Sherlock staggered to his feet, and almost did a face-plant. Greg holstered his gun and caught Sherlock in the same motion.

"Fucking Christ, Sherlock!" He got under the kid's shoulder, "Mycroft is _not_ here, if that's any comfort to you. He did call me, but I thought you'd jumped a flight somewhere."

"Thought 'bout it."

"What did you take, Sherlock?" He huffed as he got Sherlock out of the room. Down the hall at the stairs, he could see Rocky. "You're not high right now."

"Nope." He popped the second syllable, a funny and endearing habit of his, "Was yesterday. Didn't sleep for six days, you know."

"You've been off-radar for three weeks, but Mycroft still tracked you on CCTV, you weren't trying hard enough."

"Didn't...uh, want to...disappear?" Sherlock shook his head, looking down at Rocky, who had passed out, "Fuck, that's Rocky!"

"I know. Can you stand by yourself?" He leaned Sherlock against the wall and dropped to his knees before the teenager, "I caught him OD'ing on X and cocaine. Rocky?" He shook the kid, got no response. His pulse was weak and he wasn't breathing. Cursing under his breath, he picked Rocky up in a fireman's carry, over his shoulders again, and looked at Sherlock, "I can't carry both of you, please tell me you can walk."

"Can I...hold on?"

"Yeah, yeah you can hold on, but for God's sake don't push me." He made his way very, _very_ carefully down the stairs and somehow got down without hurting himself, Rocky, or Sherlock. When he staggered out of the house, he almost missed a step-down and would have hurt all three of them if Sherlock hadn't somehow managed to catch him.

"Careful." Sherlock muttered. He got as far as the waiting ambulance, rolled Rocky onto a stretcher, and told the medics what he knew. Suddenly, Sherlock collapsed against him and almost went down.

"Shit! Sherlock, hold it!" He spun on his heel and caught Sherlock before he fell, "Oh, fuck, you mad bastard!" They got Sherlock onto a stretcher and he leaned over the troubled genius junkie, taking hold of Sherlock's hand, "If you lied to me in that house, Sherlock Holmes, I will make it look like an accident. What did you take?"

"Cocaine."

"Of course you did! Christ." He tugged on his hair in annoyance, "I don't get paid enough to put up with this shit!" Shaking his head, he had the medics take Sherlock and Rocky to hospital, "Find out what else is in his system, I'll be along once I've finished up."

"Right then, Sergeant." The drivers just smiled knowingly and told him where to find his two strung-out charges. Ruffling his hair, Greg dug for his mobile and looked over at Billingsly.

"Gotta make a call, Jackie, sorry."

"Scene's not going anywhere." His boss just smiled at him, "I got the drug-list for Richard Lockley to the medics, they'll handle him."

"Oh, that's his name?" Greg raised an eyebrow as he dialed a number, "Thanks, Jackie." He waited for the call to ring out. It rang once.

 _"Gregory?"_

"Found him, Myc." He turned his back on the scene and dropped his voice, "Listen, he's in a bad way, him and another kid I pulled out of there. Sixteen people, Mycroft, a lot of young ones this time."

 _"Where did they take him?"_

"University College London Hospital. I hope you have a better option than rehab this time, or we'll be right back at square one."

 _"I think I have something. Thank you so much, Greg."_

"Mycroft, please, we're practically family by now." He kicked at the gravel and kept an eye on the scene behind him, "I'm just counting my lucky stars I didn't find Sherlock OD'ing this time."

 _"What about the other one?"_

"Uh, name's Richard Lockley, he's probably seventeen or eighteen. Way too young. OD'd on Ecstasy and cocaine, I'm keeping my fingers crossed."

 _"Who dealt him?"_

"Ginger? I'll put her away for life if I get the chance." Greg paced irritably, "Listen, I've gotta go, Myc. I've gotta clear the scene and get up to UCLH to check on the kids."

 _"Thank you so much, Greg. I'll see what I can find on Richard Lockley for you."_

"Thanks, Myc. I'll be in touch." He hung up and pocketed his phone, going to finish clearing the scene. He questioned the dealers, tore Gabrielle Hereford to pieces for knowingly endangering a minor, and asked for Sherlock's dealer. Every one of them pointed him back to Ginger, and he clenched his teeth as he snapped his hand-cuffs around her wrists and shoved her into the backseat of his squad-car, "I have had _enough_ of your bullshit, Ms. Hereford, and no amount of sweet-talk or threatening me is going to get you out of trouble this time."

"You know you can't touch me, Sergeant Lestrade." The cocky twenty-five year-old just grinned at him, all he wanted to do was throttle her, "I have connections, you know."

"Guess what, sweetheart," he leaned into the car, getting into her space, "so do I." He raised an eyebrow, "Probably better connections than yours anyway, but I'm not bragging." Stepping back, he took a minute to appreciate the expression on Hereford's face before he slammed the door on her and walked around his car.

"You can be downright cruel, you know." Billingsly said smugly as he passed her before sliding into the passenger seat, "What's your next move?"

"Book Ginger and make a few more phone-calls before I head over to UCLH to visit Sherlock and Rocky." He buckled up, glanced in the rearview to check on Hereford, and started the car.

"Good with me." Billingsly patted him on the arm as he put the car in gear and set off for New Scotland Yard. It was a quiet drive, if you didn't count the bellyaching Hereford was doing, threatening their jobs, posturing about her connections, how she would make bail by nightfall and be out before they got home for dinner. Oh wait, they weren't going to, were they? They had "weirdo jobs" anyway. Greg didn't know if it was the lack of sleep in the last seventy-two hours, he'd gotten maybe a grand total of twelve hours, hearing from Mycroft that Sherlock had been off-radar for three weeks only to pick him up at his next bust, or the fact that he had pulled an eighteen-year-old kid out of a drug-house high on Ecstasy and cocaine, and it wasn't even the good-quality stuff, so bad he'd gone into OD while Greg had been holding him, but Hereford was really getting on his nerves.

* * *

By the time they reached The Yard, he was tearing his hair out. Taking pity on him, Billingsly offered to book in Hereford to let him make those phone-calls and collect himself for a bit before he went to the hospital. Dumping his coat, he set aside his radio and picked up his desk-phone. Time to call Melissa Hereford. As he waited for the call to ring out, he pulled up the messaging window from his earlier conversation with Susan Brealy.

 **Sue. I'm back. Bloody fucking hell. – GLestrade**

 **You found Sherlock Holmes, I take it? – SBrealy**

 **Thank God. Found the bugger high on morphine, but I'll take that over the last few times I've pulled him from a drug-den. – GLestrade**

 **What's on your mind? – SBrealy**

How could she _do_ that? Shaking his head, he ruffled his pockets for a cigarette.

 _"Melissa Hereford's office, this is Charlene speaking, how may I direct your call?"_ a pleasant voice sounded in his ear and he sat up a bit straighter.

"Afternoon, Charlene." He grinned, "It's Greg Lestrade over at Scotland Yard. Is Melissa in?"

 _"Oh! Greg! Hi! Yes, she's in right now! We haven't heard from you in a while, is everything okay?"_ Funny how a phone-call could change someone's day. He just wished he had good news. He grimaced as he came up with a nearly-empty pack of cigarettes. Damn. Shaking one out, he fished in a drawer for a lighter, he usually kept two or three. Habit, Sherlock swiped them when he wasn't looking, like he swiped Greg's badges. Bloody git, he still loved the kid.

"Yeah, it's been one of those days. Y'know." He shrugged as he found one, "I gotta talk to Melissa real quick, if she's busy I can call back, but this is kind of important."

 _"Oh, sure! Just a minute!"_

"You're a doll, Charlene." He sighed, pushing his chair back enough to prop his feet on the desk. He wasn't supposed to do that, but he really didn't care at the moment. It was quiet for approximately a minute before the line clicked over again.

 _"This is Melissa Hereford."_

"Mel, hi, it's Greg." He braced himself for an awkward conversation. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

 _"Oh, good heavens, no! You almost never call, so this must be important."_ He could just see the smile, and groaned, _"To what do I owe the pleasure of your voice this afternoon, Sergeant?"_

"We picked up Gabrielle on a bust just a bit ago. She invoked your name and a number of hot-air threats to my job and livelihood. I just thought you should know."

 _"Oh Jesus_ fucking _Christ!"_ He sincerely hoped there was no one else in Melissa's office just at that moment.

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mel." He rubbed his forehead, "But I really wanted to get a jump on her before she called you. We booked her in, but everything is in your control now."

 _"Did she_ hurt _anyone?"_ Melissa's voice was a frightening snarl, and Greg was _so_ glad he wasn't in her office right now, giving her this news in person. He had considered it, but had decided it was just simpler to call, and quite possibly _safer_. His instincts had been correct. He _really_ wanted to lie and tell her no, Gabrielle hadn't hurt anyone, but that would have been a huge lie. And he had to think about Sherlock and Rocky. He took a long draw of his cigarette, holding his breath for a minute.

"How much would you hate me if I said yes?"

 _"Fucking hell. That damn fool!"_

"Take it easy, Mel." He cautioned, "I'm the wrong target. Yes, she hurt someone."

 _"Who?"_

"A teenager, real young kid named Richard Lockley. He couldn't even tell me what he'd taken or how much, that's how bad it was. Poor kid could barely tell me his god damn name."

 _"How young, Greg?"_

"Seventeen? _Maybe_ eighteen?"

 _"What did she give him?"_

"Um, he told me it was..." he flipped through his notes, stalling for time, "X and...coke. He was in real bad shape when I shipped him off to UCLH. I also had to send in Sherlock Holmes."

 _"Oh, you found him! Thank god!"_

"I take it Mycroft said something?"

 _"And Violet. Sweet thing came to me yesterday asking if I might have an idea."_ Melissa sounded worn out now, and Greg felt bad for her, _"I thought he might have tagged Ginger. I wish he would go clean."_

"You and a lot of other very worried people." He took another draw, "So, I take it my job is safe for the time being and you're in absolutely no hurry to bail your daughter out of jail?"

 _"No. She can sit there as long as she needs to. She only comes to me when she needs something, so I'm going to teach her a lesson."_ Melissa's voice was stronger and Greg nodded to himself.

"Glad to hear it, Mel. Sorry I called with such bad news. We should try to catch lunch together some time."

 _"That would be just lovely, Greg. I'll tell Mark and the kids you said hi. They miss you."_

"Yeah, I'm sorry. This job is going to kill me." He cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder and ruffled his hair with one hand, "Maybe Christmas? I'll try to make it up to them at Christmas."

 _"Don't bankrupt yourself on account of family, Greg. We're certainly not worth it."_

"Oh, bullshit! Of course you're worth it!" He flicked ash from the end of the cigarette into the ashtray on his desk, a nice one from Sherlock a few years ago, "You're some of the only family I've got left! I'll go flat broke spoiling those kids if I have to!" He thought of something, "After all, we might as well make sure they know what it's like to have family that really loves them, right?"

 _"Christ, how did we survive?"_

"Because we had each other." He smiled and kicked away from his desk to put his feet down, checking his messaging-window. He had been filling Susan in on things while he'd been talking to Melissa, essentially multi-tasking. Greg chuckled, he seemed to be _very_ good at multi-tasking at work, even running on twelve hours of sleep. His mobile buzzed and he checked for new messages. It was Mycroft, he'd reached the hospital and had some information on Rocky for him. He nodded, tapping out a reply with his thumb. Suddenly, from clear across the other side of the bull-pen, he heard a loud shriek and nearly fell out of his chair.

 _"What happened?"_ Melissa had heard his flailing and cursing and he got up from his chair without killing himself.

"Uh, hang on a second." He looked over the top of his cubicle, searching for the source of that noise. Then he spotted them, three of them. Three, he remembered now, of...four? Five, or was it six now? Christ, what were they doing here? _Why_ were they here? His first thought was for Harry, which would have just been the icing on the cake. "Christ and Satan. Fuck."

 _"Greg?"_

"Sorry, love. Gotta go." He waved, getting a nod when the eldest of the threesome coming his way saw him and registered his location, "The Watsons just showed up."

 _"It's not Harry, is it?"_

"I don't _see_ her, and there's...something about John that's got me a little worried. I'll be in touch! My love to the kiddos!"

 _"Remember, you promised them Christmas."_

"I'll do my best to keep it, Melissa. Cheers, love." He hung up and bolted from his cubicle, intercepting three of the six Watson children. "John!"

"Hey, Greg. Sorry we didn't call." Never let it be said John Watson was timid about anything. Quiet, unassuming, smart as a fucking whip, and humble, but not really _timid_. He _hated_ asking for help, but that was his stubborn pride and nothing else. John had showed up at New Scotland Yard with his youngest siblings in tow, in uniform. Greg hated to think what that meant, it left a sour taste in the back of his mouth.

"A heads up would have been nice, but that doesn't mean I would have gotten the message." Greg hauled the young man into a hug, careful of the child John was carrying on his hip, "Christ, I haven't seen you guys in ages. What's up?"

"We just got out from visiting Harry."

"Oh, god, John." Now he knew what they were doing here, "When did she get pulled in?"

"Last night. I only got around to it today. I told her I wasn't bailing her out, she could spend another night in the drunk-tank. She didn't like that."

"Sure she didn't." He sighed and looked at the two youngsters, "Well, come on then. Mariam and Christopher are in school, I take it?"

"Mm hmm." John shifted his hold on Darcy, who was all of six months old, "I _really_ needed her to look after Darcy and Tris for me."

"You found a replacement baby-sitter, I hope?"

"Mrs. Hudson stepped up when I called this morning. I know I could have asked Violet and Siger, but they do too much already."

"All you have to do is ask, John." Greg smiled and picked up four-year-old Tristan Watson, "Hi, Tris."

"Hi." Tristan smiled shyly and put both arms tightly around Greg's neck. He sighed, wondering about the kids sometimes. He took the kids back to his cubicle and pulled a stack of craft-paper and a box of markers from the bottom drawer of his desk. At the age of twenty-four, John Watson was the second of six children, his sister Harriet was three years older at twenty-seven, followed by the twins Mariam and Christopher at sixteen, then Tristan at four, and Darcy was the youngest of the lot at six months. Stealing an empty interview-room, he settled the Watsons in and went in search of coffee. John followed him, leaving Darcy asleep on a pile of blankets on the floor while Tristan scribbled at the table.

"Tris, you be good, alright? I'll be right back."

"Okay, John-non!" Tristan beamed at them, going back to his scribbling. As they walked away from the room, he saw Susan Brealy come around a corner. He jumped on the chance to let someone watch the youngsters so he could pull John for a one-on-one chat.

"Susan! Thank god!"

"Oh, hey, Greg." Susan saw him coming and smiled, "I'm surprised you're not halfway to UCLH right now. What's the hold-up?"

"Something kind of came up." He looked at John, who had the good grace to look bashful, "But Mycroft's already there, so things are under control. Listen, I need a favor?"

"What do I get out of it?"

"My eternal gratitude?"

"Don't look at me like that..." she trailed off when he gave her his best sad-puppy look. Rolling her eyes, she was about to say yes anyway when she realized that it was John Watson standing next to him. "Oh. Shit. John Watson!"

"Hey, Sue." John managed a smile for Susan, who circled him like a hawk before she dragged him into a rib-crushing hug, "It's...been a while."

"Been a while?! Bollocks! You need to stay in better touch with us!"

"Sorry about that." John coughed.

"You brought the littles with you, right? Mariam and Chris are in school and Harry's..."

"Down in lock-up. Yeah. Can you look after Tris and Darcy for a bit? She's down for her nap, and Tris is drawing pictures. Just... _please_?" Like John would ever have to beg any of the women of New Scotland Yard for a babysitting favor. Greg was pretty sure he could ask Sally Donovan nicely and she'd say yes. In fact, come to think of it, Greg was fairly certain that Donovan _had_ done some babysitting for the youngest Watsons in the past.

"Oh, don't you worry a thing, Johnny! And wherever they're sending you, you be careful and write home, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am." John ducked his head, blushing, and made a face when Susan seized him and dragged him into a kiss on the cheek, "Ugh!"

"I am _not_ sorry, young man! You be careful, understand? I don't need to hear from this one that something bad happened to you!" She jerked her head at Greg to emphasize her point.

"Understood." John gave a brisk nod and as soon as the conference-room door had closed behind Susan, muffling the excited squeals as Tristan recognized her, he exhaled and seemed to deflate.

"Come on, kid. I'm getting you coffee."

"Thanks, Greg. God, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. So, where are they sending you?" He headed for the break-room, which was blessedly empty at the moment. "I mean, you finished school, then?"

"Yeah. I mean...yeah. I haven't decided what I want to do, but...the big part's behind me. The part the Army paid for. Maybe general surgery? Or, I don't know, pathology?"

"Yeah, I _figured_ that. Jesus, son." He fixed up one cup the way he knew John took his and then one for himself, "I never thought I'd actually see the day you got shipped out. How are the kids taking it?"

"Pretty well. I mean, they know I'm leaving, but...they're kind of used to me wearing the uniform around, so it's not a shock to them. I'm just...worried."

"You've got a life-insurance policy, don't you?"

"I got one when I was twelve." John took a gulp of coffee, "I heard Sherlock got into some trouble?"

"You could say that." Greg leaned against the counter, "What _is_ it about that kid?"

"Your guess is good as mine." John swirled his cup, "Y'know, I talked to Mycroft when Sherlock went missing?"

"About what?"

"Said if he needed a structured program to knock sense and shape into that bastard genius brother of his, I had a few ideas."

"What kind of ideas?" Greg narrowed his eyes, trying to imagine what they might have come up with that Sherlock would say yes to. John gestured at his fatigues, almost dismissively. Greg coughed, nearly choked, but got himself under control. "Wait... _what_?!" He shook his head, "How?"

"I leave tomorrow morning."

"Christ, John! How do you expect to get him to agree to it?"

"Because it's either join me in the Army in three months and a quarter, or involuntary rehab and criminal drug charges." John shrugged, but Greg knew how important Sherlock's health was to John, "But the choice is his, I can't force him into anything."

"What if he takes Option A?"

"Then God help us all." John sighed, "It's bad. I love him, I really do, but I'm so _sick_ of him doing this to himself. Was he OD'ing when you found him this afternoon?"

"No, actually. He _was_ high, but he wasn't OD'ing. Not like the poor kid I found five minutes before." Greg rubbed his face, "Twelve fucking hours of sleep."

"You're a good person, Greg." John murmured, burying half of that in a sip of coffee, "It's just a bloody shame your bitch of an ex-girlfriend can't see it."

"That's her own damn fault, kid. Don't let Chelsea bug you too much, I'll be alright."

"Besides _that_ , you found a damn fine replacement." John sniffed dismissively, "At least she never saddled you with kids like Margaret did with Henry. For all the good _that_ did any of us."

"You've taken good care of the kids, John. Don't think about them." Greg squeezed John's shoulder, trying to pull him away from that dark place, "And for someone in your situation, you really beat the learning-curve to a pulp. But then, you'd been doing it since you were twelve. Twelve years old and looking after your junkie parents and older sister with the twins to handle. God bless you, John Watson."

"That's why I became a doctor, y'know?" John finished his coffee and got another cup, "So I could take care of others like I took care of my own family. Like I take care of the Holmeses."

"That reminds me." Greg rubbed the back of his neck, "I feel real bad for missing your Passing Out Ceremony. Did anyone show up for it?"

"Violet and Siger came, and Mycroft. They brought the twins." John smiled, "Funny how that worked out, though. I was a scrappy little street-kid when Sherlock took me home to his family. I was...nine?Ten years old?"

"You've kept Sherlock straight, or tried to, since then. But you've always been there for him."

"I'd kind of like to keep being there for him. If he doesn't kill himself first." John twirled his cup, "What if he says no, Greg?"

"Then there's nothing we can do but stand back and support him in whatever bad choices he makes." Greg rubbed the back of John's neck, "But he'll listen to you, he always has. He tries, and he respects you." He watched the young man finish his coffee and chuck the empty cup in the bin, "Come on, son. I'll take you to UCLH if you want to see him before you ship out."

"I'd...like that. He might not want to see me, but I'll say goodbye to Mycroft anyway." John sniffed, straightened up, and Greg swallowed hard. He remembered John and Sherlock as the scrappy kids playing on the grounds of the Holmes family home both in London and out in Sussex. John had been ten the first time they met, and Sherlock a very precocious seven, but for some reason the two of them had just hit it off and the rest of that friendship was history.

* * *

He remembered a messy custody trial when John had been thirteen, the twins had been five. Tristan hadn't even been conceived yet. But somehow, by some _bloody_ miracle, the barrister Siger had found to take the Watson's case pro-bono had not only wrangled full independence for Harry at sixteen, but custody of all existing Watson children _and_ any future children to the care of the Holmes family until they were of age to create their own lives. Almost overnight, they had gone from one of the poorest families in three boroughs to a life of relative luxury. As a result of this, with glaring exception for Harry who had always done her own thing and always would, John and his siblings had gone to good, reputable schools, gotten excellent educations, and John had then decided he wanted to do something with himself and gone to medical school with his bills paid for by the British Army. Now he had graduated from medical school and was getting shipped off to...somewhere. And he was offering his erratic best friend a chance to make something of himself at the same time.

Shaking his head, Greg tossed his own empty cup and went to let Susan know he was taking John to see Sherlock. She had _no_ problem babysitting, and promised to call Siger and Violet if she needed an extra hand. Grateful for that at least, Greg grabbed his jacket and radio and headed for the door, hoping they could escape without any more hold-ups. That hope went straight out the window when he heard a shriek behind them and spun on his heel, half-expecting trouble. It was trouble, alright. Greg groaned and pressed one hand to his eyes.

"Oh, Christ. Donovan!" He dared to peek and sighed, "For fuck's sake! Oi! You two, knock it off!" Like the pair of horny kids they were, he watched John Watson and Sally Donovan take a step away from each other with nearly-identical expressions on their faces. Caught but not sorry enough.

"Sorry, sir."

"It's fine, just...tone it down?" Greg shook his head as the pair tagged along after him. He tried to think of how long John and Sally had known each other, or even how they'd _met_. He thought their friendship might have been around longer than John's friendship with Sherlock. He seemed to recall Donovan making mention of the fact that she'd grown up in the council estates when she'd cleared Police Academy and gone on to work at New Scotland Yard. He wondered if she had lived in the same council estate the Watsons had until the courts had handed custody of the children to one of the richest families in the city. It would explain why they got along so well whenever John visited New Scotland Yard, or they ran into each other out on the streets. John and Sherlock had a slightly annoying habit of popping up at crime-scenes, but usually turned out to be helpful. When they got to his car, he gave John and Donovan a chance to say their momentary goodbyes. He was pretty sure he heard Donovan ask if he was reporting to Durham tonight. John said no, he was flying from London City Airport first thing in the morning to Durham, and from there he was flying to...Germany? And then to his final destination: Kabul. Afghanistan.

"They're sending you to _Afghanistan_?! John, no!" Oh, Donovan did _not_ like that, and frankly, neither did Greg. It was November, they wouldn't see John again until May. And that was if he came home in one piece. He listened as John promised Donovan that he would see her again tonight, he wasn't going to just up and leave without saying a proper goodbye. That didn't do much for his constable's mood, but it was enough for her to at least let him go long enough to finish up his business at University College London Hospital. Greg had already started the car, and as soon as John had his seatbelt on, he put the car in gear.

"Were you going to _tell_ anyone where they were sending you?"

"I told my family. Violet's reaction was about the same as Sal's, Siger was more like you." John cleared his throat, "The kids...didn't understand. Well, the littles didn't. Poor Darcy, she doesn't even know I'm leaving. Tristan doesn't understand why."

"He's _four_ , John! How can you expect a four-year-old to understand something as complicated as war?"

"I can't." John ruffled his hair, already cut military-short. It had grown out from the close cut he'd sported during Basic Training, but it was still _very_ short.

"You know Siger would have paid your way through university, John."

"I know. But...even though he's been my father-figure for years, he knows I like to do things on my own. The money is still mine, I still have access to it, it's just not going to be spent on education."

"The Holmes family has been very good to you, haven't they?"

"They always have been." John cracked a smile, "Worried as they are, Siger and Violet really are proud of me."

"Of course they are." Greg smiled and reached across the center console, "All of us are. And really, if you forget to write home, John, I will have hell to sit through from the girls. _Please_ don't forget to write home."

"I won't." John chuckled, "I'm so glad Detective Billingsly likes me."

"She finds you very charming, John." Greg sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel, "Boy, you're not going to miss the traffic out there, are you?"

"Oh, I probably will. It's a completely different world out there, Greg." John braced one foot against the dashboard, adjusting his boot-laces, "Desert for miles, wary locals, half-mad terrorists hiding in the hills. Am I mad for going out there?"

"Mad? Maybe. But very brave, too." Greg flipped through radio-channels until he found one with decent music. "Have you studied the languages at all?"

"Back when I joined up, I couldn't figure out what to do with myself, so I took on with the Signal Corps, got in with the 2nd Regiment, 214 Squadron."

"You?" Greg didn't mean to laugh, "You went Signals?!"

"Yes, sir."

"Well _done_ , Watson!" He chuckled, "I'll be damned. You said 2nd Reg, 214 Squad?"

"Yes, sir." John smiled.

"Mmhmn." Greg shook his head, "Let me guess your troop. Viking?"

"If you saw my badge, that's cheating."

"Which is on your _other_ sleeve, son." Greg reached over and ruffled John's short hair, "Nah, _that_ was a lucky guess. Was I right?"

"Yes you were."

"Oh, _nicely_ done! So, why did you go to Medical School, then?"

"I like helping people, but I figured worst case, I can always back up to be a Siggie if it comes right down to it." John shrugged, a little more relaxed. Greg looked him over more closely, and realized that, no matter what he did, or what he'd gone in for, John Watson was perfect for the Army. Now, as for his bit with the Royal Corps of Signals, would he have gone on as a Communication Systems Operator, a Communication Systems Engineer, or...or...hmm. Had John Watson gone in with the Signal Corps as an Electronic Warfare Systems Operator, the clever signalers who intercepted and jammed enemy communications? That seemed to be a bit more Sherlock's thing than John's, but he knew John was clever, resourceful, and had a knack for things like that. When they reached the hospital, he let John out first and followed after parking the car. At the desk, with John beside him, he asked for Holmes. The nurse on duty gave him directions. Greg nodded absently.

"And...uh, Richard Lockley?"

"They're sharing a room at the moment. Are you family?"

"Of a sort." He shrugged it off and pocketed his badge, "Unless _his_ family materialized out of thin air." Greg sighed and led the way up to the proper floor. The room was quiet but not silent, and Greg looked at John when they noticed a distinct _lack_ of complaining from Sherlock.

"Wouldn't put it past the git to break out of here unseen." John hissed, backing up to the door before he peeked around into the room. Greg snickered, knowing it was his training with the Army that had just kicked in. They were perfectly safe, and yet he was treating this like a potential ambush-situation. And considering who they had come to see, Greg didn't blame him. John went in first, his footsteps nearly silent, and Greg followed.

"Oh, you'll do _fine_ in the Army!" He whispered. The room was so quiet because, miraculously, Sherlock Holmes was sound asleep. A curtain separated Sherlock's half of the room from that occupied by Richard Lockley, and Greg ground his teeth together. Shaking his head, he watched John approach Sherlock's bedside and study his friend for a minute before he did something risky. Careful not to cause too much commotion, John slid onto the narrow bed, wedging into a narrow space alongside Sherlock, who stirred but did not wake up. Leaving the boys for the moment, Greg pulled aside the curtain for Rocky's bed and heaved a sigh of relief. Seated at the bedside was an elderly couple, roughly in their eighties, possibly in their nineties, just beside themselves with grief. So, Rocky _did_ have a family. He didn't announce himself, respecting their privacy, but it seemed human habit to always know if there was someone nearby you. The gentleman raised his head and looked over his shoulder. When he caught sight of Greg standing there, he got slowly to his feet. Wincing, Greg rushed forward quietly and held out one hand.

"Oh, thank you, son."

"Of course, sir." He looked at the unconscious boy in the bed, unable to help the expression on his face, "Christ."

"You're the brave Detective Sergeant who pulled my grandson out of that drug-den this afternoon." It was not a question. Greg nodded.

"Yes, sir. Gregory Lestrade."

"Curtis Holliday. Thank you, Mr. Lestrade. You saved my boy's life."

"It...was the least I could do. God, I'm so glad he's got some family."

"We're all he's got. Dad's dead, mum's not in his life." Mr. Holliday shook his head, "When we got that phone-call, I cried." Greg sighed and looked around the quiet room.

"Have you eaten, sir?"

"Hmm?"

"I asked if you've had something to eat in the past few hours."

"Oh. Heavens, no. Dottie ate something earlier, but..."

"Well." Greg ruffled his hair, "I missed lunch completely. Can you leave your wife and grandson for a few minutes?"

"Oh, I suppose. But who will look out for them?"

"Plenty of people. John Watson's got instincts and good ears. Also, I'd be a damn fool if Mycroft Holmes isn't sneaking around here somewhere. He's got eyes everywhere." Greg folded his arms and waited as Rocky's grandfather explained himself to his wife, who just nodded and told him to go on.

"Don't worry, ma'am, I'll take care of him." Greg smiled at the woman, who managed a blinding smile despite her grief.

"Oh, heavens, son! Call me Dottie!"

"Alright then." He smiled and ushered Rocky's grandfather out of the room. He looked in on John and Sherlock, "John, can you keep an eye on things? I'm stepping out for a minute."

"No problem, Greg. Go on." John looked over his shoulder at them and gave a weak smile. Greg knew this whole thing was breaking John's heart and regretted that John was shipping out to Afghanistan in the morning. As they left the room and headed for the hospital canteen, Mr. Holliday looked back once.

"You said that young fellow's name was Watson? The soldier?"

"Uh, yeah. John Watson. You know him?"

"He used to work for me, before he went to medical school. Smart lad, diligent and resourceful."

"Yeah, that sounds like John." Greg smiled, "What, exactly, do you do, Mr. Holliday? Or...did do?"

"Oh, I run an accounting firm. Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm old, but I've got my marbles. All of 'em. Can't stand bein' bored."

"I'm sorry." Greg bit his lip, "But most people your age are retired, sir."

"Bah, I'll die first! Too much livin' to do to be sedentary!"

"I suppose."

"And someone's got to be around to look after Rocky." Holliday's expression saddened a bit. Greg sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his hi-vis jacket. When they got to the canteen, he picked something simple for lunch and after Holliday picked something, paid and found a seat. For fifteen minutes, he enjoyed a quiet meal and some decent company. John's inclination to pull Sherlock into the Army with him put an idea in Greg's head and he wondered how he could put it to Holliday.

"Something's on your mind, Detective. What is it?" Holliday had noticed his expression, and Greg shook his head.

"I'm so sorry. But I just had a thought. Is Rocky a particularly troubled boy? He seems good, but...misguided. I speak from experience with Watson's companion."

"He can be. He needs structure and discipline, but at my age I can't give him all of that. What did you have in mind?"

"Have you considered sending him to the Army Foundation College? That's forty-nine weeks of all the structure and discipline anyone could want."

"You're a clever man, Detective." Holliday grinned. "I found an enlistment flier under his bed the other day. But he's far too young. It's what he wants to do. Perhaps the AFC would be the right course of action."

"Give him time to recover, and send him to the College." Greg took a sip of water and checked his phone for messages. Nothing from John, of course, but there was one from Mycroft. He smiled and opened the message.

 **Saw your car. Where are you? – MH**

 **Down in the canteen. No lunch-break, so took a mo to eat.**

 **Good. See you soon. – MH**

After finishing lunch, Greg binned his trash and went back up to Sherlock's room. Mycroft was waiting outside the room, wearing a content smile, and after bidding Holliday farewell, and good luck with Rocky, he checked on Sherlock and John. The boys were sitting up on the narrow bed together, facing each other with their knees touching. Sherlock sat with his back against the wall, John with his against the foot-board, chatting in lively, quiet tones. He wondered if John had broached the subject of Sherlock coming to the Army with him. It was so strange to see John sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed, his boots set carefully on the floor, but so...normal.

"Alright, boys, I've got a mountain of paperwork with my name on it, so I'll leave you to it." He hated leaving them, but Mycroft would get them where they needed to go. "John, don't forget to write."

"I won't, Greg. Swear." John just smiled at him, and Greg knew it was John's smile he would miss the most.

"Well, my loves. Be well, be safe, and be smart." He kissed each boy and left the hospital a little heartbroken. Mycroft followed him back to The Yard and kept him company while he finished the stacks of paperwork that had proliferated on his desk. Tristan was, of course, absolutely thrilled to see Mycroft, who took five minutes to play with John's youngest siblings. He always did, and it always caught people by surprise when someone as important as Mycroft Holmes stooped to literal child's play.

* * *

A month later, Sherlock graduated from university and left for Basic Training, determined to follow John wherever he went, and Greg just kept his fingers crossed. He said a prayer for the boys, for their safety and their friendship, for their strange and special brand of love. With John and Sherlock gone, Greg looked after John's siblings, keeping the older kids out of trouble as best he could and offering a night of babysitting for Siger and Violet to take a moment just for themselves. The only one he was constantly watching, really, was Harry Watson, who careened through life with a brand of recklessness that had him in fear for her sanity and her life. She was an alcoholic, but she rebelled against rehab, and he was sure she had a bipolar disorder as well, but there was nothing for it. As long as he didn't have to call John or the Holmeses after responding to a body-call to find out it was Harry Watson, that was alright with him.


	2. Dear Friends Far and Near

Chapter Two – Dear Friends Far and Near

::

Following John and Sherlock's first deployment with the British Army, it didn't take long for the boys to hit their strides and letters and calls home were regular and packed with news. The excitement and the contentment was palpable and contagious to their loved ones left behind in England, and those who knew them best were just relieved the boys had a creative, acceptable outlet for the excess of energy that had seized them both at an early age. It was almost a given that John would be a good fit for the Army lifestyle, but no one had really expected his petulant best friend to take so well to the structured, strict ways of Army life. But Sherlock, against all odds, was positively _thriving_. His commanders, when discreetly questioned, had nothing but good things to say about the feisty genius. Yes he had his problems, but so did everyone else.

He didn't have many friends, spending much of his time around John or somewhere nearby if he wasn't able to be in the medic's direct presence, keeping to himself otherwise and fulfilling his duties with very few complaints. Menial tasks he had abhorred at home were undertaken with a relish overseas, and some careful questioning revealed that between John and the persistent drill-instructors during Basic Training, he had come to see the necessity and even the joy of something as simple and _boring_ as mopping floors. With the motivation and a few hours to himself, he could get the whole barracks-room he shared with twenty other men spotless. Any personal effects left about were carefully stored on the bunk of the owner once the beds had been made to military specs, stacked neatly, and everything else put in it's rightful place. No one minded clean sheets after a long patrol, and no one _ever_ minded the scent of fresh lemon that signaled a clean barracks-room. He would pick up mail and leave stacks of letters and packages for his squad-mates who got such correspondence. He kept his bunk, shared with John, always neat and nothing was ever left about. John would tease him about his house-keeping habits, and what a slob he was back home, but it never seemed to bother him. And _everyone_ loved it when, on quiet nights and everyone was safe on base after dinner, he would pull out his violin and play a few songs.

John of course was exemplary, turning out to be one of the best sharp-shooters in his battalion, never mind his small unit of twenty, friend to everyone and smart where it counted. Between the two boys, there were plenty of nights of driving their barracks-mates to hysterics as Sherlock picked apart each and every one of them with a special breed of restraint, never saying anything purposefully hurtful. And if he knew something about another soldier's love-life back home that might be a bit not good and certainly not fit for public ridicule, he kept it to himself until he could approach the man in question. And since insults were kind of Sherlock's specialty, it was a point of wonder where he had learned such restraint. The answer, as with so many, was very simple: John. John kept him right, guided him straight, kept him out of trouble, gave him focus. Always had, and very likely always would.

* * *

Once John and Sherlock settled into a routine and rhythm that just seemed to work for them, it took almost two years for them to see home soil again. That was by their own choice, they kept taking deployments together wherever the Army could send them. Afghanistan for sixteen months, then a stint in Germany, another in Ireland, and a short deployment in Canada – not necessarily in that exact order – before they were finally told to use up some of their stagnating leave and spend some time with their families. So, home they went, dragging deployment bags stuffed with dirty clothes and far more sand than they cared to consider acceptable and a rucksack full of gifts for their loved ones.

It was noon, if John's watch was right, when the cab they had hired at the airport pulled up to the kerb at 221 Baker Street. Every inch of him hurt, which was normal after a long flight like the one just forty-five minutes behind them, and he groaned as Sherlock pushed him impatiently out of the cab.

"Go, John!"

"Sod off, Sherlock. Christ." He reached back and smacked his friend upside the head without looking, "I'm moving, alright? Get the bags, please? Don't forget anything."

"I won't! Go!"

"Jesus, you're impatient!" he rolled his eyes and paid the fare, "Have a good afternoon, sir."

"My pleasure, boys. Thanks for your service!" The cabbie just smiled at John, shaking hands with him, "Have a good stay home, will you?"

"Sure plan to, sir." He offered a passably polite smile as Sherlock dragged on his stable-belt, "For the love of God, Sherlock, I will lay you out on the sidewalk if it kills me! Knock it off!"

"Oh, come _on_ , John! Please?"

"What has you so wound up? You've been bouncing since we were halfway and crossing the Black Sea. Jesus Christ." He picked up his bags and headed for the familiar black door. He hadn't seen it in a while, but Baker Street was, and would always be home.

"We're _home_ , John! For the first time in _two years_!"

"So, Sherlock Holmes is homesick. Go fucking figure." John rolled his eyes as he got his key in the door and shoved the door open with his shoulder, "Oh, remind me to fix the door for Mrs. Hudson? It's stuck again."

"Of course." Sherlock was right behind him and kicked the door shut once they were both inside. Wondering if their landlady was home, he was about to call out for her when he heard a loud crash from the ground-floor flat, followed by raised voices. Fresh out of the field, they were wired to react in a violent situation and John heard the soft click as Sherlock quietly reached for his service-weapon.

"Upstairs." He hissed, "We'll come back down in a minute."

"Right that." Sherlock huffed and they quietly went upstairs to the flat they had shared for quite a while, so long John didn't remember _not_ living with Sherlock. University, if he had his memory straight. Setting down their bags by the door, he cleared the upstairs rooms while Sherlock cleared their flat, but nothing was amiss in their living-spaces. So, making sure the safeties were off on their pistols but knowing better than to make use of them right out of the gate, they crept back downstairs. Clearing houses in Afghanistan had trained them to move in near dead-silence, so no one else in the house heard them coming, and John figured that no one knew they were _in_ the house, given the volume of noise out of 221A. The door was unlocked, of course, Stanley was never smart enough to lock the door to keep any comers out, and John carefully turned the knob and pushed the door open with his foot, both hands on his pistol as he prepared to enter a volatile situation.

"Stanley's drunk and violent, he's not to be reasoned with." Sherlock whispered in his ear, one hand on his shoulder in a mimic of what they had done together in the field, "You know what to do?"

"Take him out without using lethal force, and find a way to make sure he never hurts Mrs. Hudson ever again. Now, if the prick comes _at_ me, I'll put a bullet through him to put him down, no hesitating."

"Self-defense, you know." Sherlock muttered, giving him a push.

"Get Emergency Services, we'll need them anyway." He stepped through the door and found the kitchen empty. Behind him, in the small living-room, Stanley Hudson stood over his wife, one hand upraised to strike her while she was down. In that hand was a cricket bat, which John was very certain had already been used on his landlady in the course of this latest and last confrontation. Sherlock had stayed outside the flat to call for help, and John proceeded on his own to put an end to this abuse. He had survived abuse in his childhood, he _hated_ seeing someone else hurt like that. Giving the off-kilter husband a good berth, he cocked back the hammer of his Browning and took careful aim, "Don't do that, Stanley."

"Well, well, well, well, _well_!" Stanley Hudson turned on him, blitzed and psychotic, "If it ain't my wife's cock-sucking tramp of a guardian angel! Ain't you a sight for sore eyes!"

"John!" Mrs. Hudson coughed his name, genuinely surprised to see him. John ignored her for a moment, maneuvering so he stood between Stanley and Mrs. Hudson, offering a bit of protection.

"John. Hamish. _Fucking._ Watson." Stanley slurred, stepping towards John, swinging the bat menacingly, "You smug prick."

"Stanley, I'm giving you fair warning. I don't want to hurt you, don't be stupid." He wanted nothing more than to put a bullet through Stanley Hudson's skull, but he wouldn't do that until he was in danger. "Mrs. Hudson, move." He glanced to his side, "Clear me." Understanding, Mrs. Hudson scrambled on hands and knees to get clear of them.

"No you don't!" Stanley roared, lunging past John to go after his wife, "I ain't _done_ with you!" John calmly tripped the drunk and let him sprawl, moving to pick up his landlady and pushed her out the door into Sherlock's hands. He slammed the door, putting his back to it and facing down his landlady's mad drunk husband.

"I won't let you hurt her, Stanley, not today, not ever again."

"What're ya gonna _do_ , boy scout?" Stanley sneered, "Talk me to death?! Bah! You're nothin' but hot air and empty honor! You're _nothin'_!" He spat on the ground between them, "You're nothin' but a council estate mutt wantin' to be something he ain't! A little boy playin' with his daddy's guns, playin' make-believe. Wantin' to be all _special_ , you play soldier!"

"I do not have to stand here and take that kind of abuse from you, Stanley." He maintained his calm, stifling the fury just under his skin. An absurd thought occurred to him and he straightened, carefully safeing and holstering his gun. Bare-handed and unarmed, he faced off against Mrs. Hudson's alcoholic husband. Stanley only saw an advantage and laughed as he came at John, swinging the bat. John knocked it away, wincing as the impact stung his forearm. With his free hand, he grabbed the bat and twisted it out of Stanley's grasp, throwing it aside. But Stanley was beyond reason, and he wasn't stupid. A knife appeared in his hand and John sighed.

"Fucking hell. Really?" He rolled his shoulders and squared himself, shaking off the sting of the blow laid down by the bat. There would be a bruise for certain. Crossing his arms in a defensive posture, he warded off the first attack, knocking Stanley back with a solid kick to the gut, ducking to avoid the down-swing of the knife, coming up again to face him. Again, Stanley charged with the fury and power of an angry bull. John stepped aside, turning to avoid the slashing blade. The drunkard regrouped and made another assault, putting all of his weight behind a blow aimed straight for John's heart. Every ounce of training kicked in and John deflected the blow, felt the tearing of cloth, and set his teeth. He knew exactly when the blade made contact with his flesh and jumped. Seeing an advantage and his target wounded, Stanley came after him. John put an armchair between them, protecting his hurt side and reaching for his gun at the same time.

"Bastard." He spat, flicking off the safety with one finger. Pulling the gun free of the holster, he took another step back from Stanley, "Don't do this, Stanley, don't do anything stupid."

"Die like a pig, fairy!" Stanley snarled, making one final charge. John didn't know what he tripped over, it felt like the coffee-table, but everything happened so quickly he couldn't track it. As his shoulders hit the carpet, he drew his knees to his chest, prepared to lash out. On pure reflex alone, his finger squeezed the trigger and he heard the shot echo in the flat. Stanley grunted, stopped in his tracks, and toppled face-first. Even with his ears ringing, John heard the wail of sirens and groaned.

"Oh, _perfect_!" he muttered, counting by sound as he shoved into a more-upright position. Three cars and an ambulance. Jesus, who called the cavalry? A domestic didn't warrant _that_ many cars, did it?

"John! Fucking Christ! _John_!" Oh. Well, now Greg Lestrade knew they were home. Just perfect. The flat-door slammed open, kicked in by none other than the hard-working Detective Sergeant John had known all his life, the part that mattered, and the place was flooded with Yarders and an ambulance crew.

* * *

As the call came over his radio for a domestic violence situation, Greg Lestrade cursed under his breath. Really? This was his afternoon? Better than a dead body, but…honestly? Domestic _violence_?

"Say again, Dispatch?" He clicked his radio, "10-9."

"There is a 237D with 245, 417A, in progress on Baker Street."

"Oh Christ." He leaned his forehead against the wheel of his car, "Not again!" How many calls had he responded to at 221 Baker Street? How many times had he dragged Stanley Hudson out of that house in hand-cuffs and spent the next hour consoling the man's sweet wife, promising to do everything in his meager power to keep her safe? Bracing himself for an unpleasant situation, he buckled his seat-belt and clicked his radio, "10-4, Dispatch. We're on our way." Sitting beside him, her face tense, Sally Donovan buckled up and he saw her pull and check her service-weapon.

"We can't keep putting him away." She muttered, "He keeps posting bail and coming back to hurt Mrs. Hudson. It's not fair."

"One step at a time, Sal." He cautioned his feisty constable, "Don't hold your breath, love."

"Sorry." She grimaced and it was a tense drive from their last post. He flipped on lights and sirens alike and made the drive, with traffic accounted for, in ten minutes. Two other Panda cars and an ambulance responded, and as soon as they pulled up, he set the brakes, grabbed his kit, and jumped out of the car.

"Vest, Donovan!" he snapped as he shrugged on his ballistics vest. The front door stood wide open, but there was no sign of the residents. Suddenly, a muffled pop reached them on the street. Greg froze for a moment, looked over the roof of his car at Sally, and ran, "Fuck! Run!" They stormed the house, he sent two of the officers upstairs to check 221B for any of the residents of the house and kicked in the door of 221A. "John!" He yelled, not entirely sure why he yelled for someone who might not _be_ in the house, "Fucking Christ! _John_!" Inside the ground-floor flat, he found Stanley Hudson, dead, and John Watson, _not_ dead. "Oh hell. John! Shit!" Jumping the dead man on the floor, he went to his knees before the gifted young Army doctor, looking him over and being careful of his hurts, "John!"

"Not dead." John wheezed

"You fucking bastard." He muttered, "Donovan!" In a heartbeat, Sally was at his side and they got John to his feet.

"I'm _fine_."

"No you're _not_ , shut up." Greg snapped, "I _know_ that bastard tagged you, John." Upstairs, he heard voices. Sherlock Holmes, he recognized that deep voice, Mrs. Hudson, and the constables. It didn't take the ambulance team long to judge that John needed stitches for the knife-wound and an x-ray for a possible broken arm, and Greg sent John to hospital with Sally. Once they were gone, he called in the coroner's van and forensics, taped off the flat, and went upstairs to get the rest of the story. Sherlock, he noticed, was _very_ tan, and _very_ angry. He and John had gotten home about fifteen minutes ago and interrupted the Hudson's domestic. After pulling Mrs. Hudson to safety, John had confronted Stanley by himself, and the whole thing had ended right before they'd kicked the door in a minute ago.

"Well, John's going to be fine, give or take a few new scars for the trouble of it." He finished scribbling down the notes and twirled his biro, "I'd say I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I'm only sorry you were hurt by that bastard again."

"The boys saved me, Greg. It's alright." She smiled and squeezed his hand, "We're safe now."

"Yeah, I guess so. And John Watson's a bloody fucking hero." He sighed, shaking his head, "Hell of a way for me to find out you boys were home, you know?"

"Sorry, Greg." Sherlock looked properly tame, "But….we're home a while, so it's not like you've only got a few days."

"You'd better have more than a few fucking days, Sherlock! It's been two bloody years since you left! Letters, phone-calls, and Skype are all fine, but not enough."

"We know." Sherlock smiled, "We're home a month. Maybe longer."

"That's fine with me." He sighed, "I could definitely use your help, little brother." The way Sherlock's eyes lit up, you'd have thought he'd offered the crown jewels.

* * *

After the scene had been cleared, he went back to New Scotland Yard. It was an hour before he heard from Sally, who came back to the Yard by herself with news on John.

"Well, the idiot got himself beat up pretty good this time."

"What is it?"

"Broken wrist and a few dozen stitches for the knife-wound on his right flank. Damn fool could have been seriously hurt." Sally tossed her patrol-cap onto his desk, taking the empty seat behind him.

"And yet, Baker Street is safer now than it's ever been."

"Thanks to selfless John Watson." Sally spun the chair with one foot, "How's Sherlock?"

"Tan, himself, and very worried. You didn't see him, did you?"

"Showed up right as I was leaving." His gifted constable was upset, not that he blamed her. The rest of the day was pretty quiet and he was able to go home at a reasonable hour, but instead of going back to his small studio flat off of Hyde Park, he drove out to Baker Street to check on the boys, picking up Thai take-away since he very much doubted they would have remembered something as simple as eating. When he let himself in, Greg heard the soft wail of a violin and smirked. Back to business as usual for the boys. He kicked the door shut and checked on 221A, but Mrs. Hudson was not home. If she wasn't upstairs, he'd ask if she had gone to stay with her sister a few days. The sight to greet him when he entered 221B was familiar and comfortable. Sherlock stood with his back to the room, coaxing sweet music from his violin, and John sat at the work-table with his laptop. No sign of Mrs. Hudson. He chuckled and went into the kitchen.

"Wash up and sit, boys, I brought food."

"Oh, bless you, Greg!" John came in first and Greg stopped him to get a look at the battle-damage, "I'm _fine_."

"Don't say that, John, he was aiming for your heart." Greg sighed, carefully examining the cast around his wrist, "Broken?"

"That's what they say."

"What did they give you for pain-control?"

"I turned down narcotics, obviously, a few Paracetamol should do the trick."

"Smart boy. Come on, you." He pushed John towards the sink, "Sherlock!"

"Coming." Sherlock obediently set down his violin and went to the bathroom to wash his hands while Greg helped John.

"So, I noticed Mrs. Hudson's gone?"

"Went to stay with her sister for a bit."

"Don't blame her at all." He sighed, "You boys want some company tonight?"

"Sure, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." He smiled and carefully pulled the hem of John's tee-shirt up to look at the bandages covering the stitches, "How many stitches?"

"Couple dozen. Doesn't hurt that much."

"It wouldn't." He carefully patted the bandaged ribs, "You're a lucky fool, John Watson. Sit down, son." Dinner was quiet, they did not speak of the events of that afternoon, and the boys got ready for bed while he cleaned up the kitchen and stashed the leftovers in the fridge. Unable to sleep, he flipped through channels of late-night trash-telly and came up empty. Finally, John tossed in The Fellowship of The Ring and they watched a proper epic film. The boys fell asleep on the couch about halfway through the film, and Greg smiled as John started to snore. He did that only if he was exhausted. Shaking his head, he got the boys to bed and shut down the lights around the house, making sure all of the doors were locked. Taking the guest-room, Greg chucked his uniform, sleeping in his pants and tee-shirt. It was several hours before his mobile buzzed with a call, and he snagged a quick shower before he headed out the door, making sure the boys were still asleep. If he needed them, he could call Sherlock.

* * *

After the excitement of making 221 Baker Street a safer place for all of it's residents, and getting a mark on his record for the self-defense shooting-death of Stanley Hudson but nothing beyond that, John Watson found himself on roughly two months of leave. One month was spent on medical leave due to injuries he had sustained during the encounter with Stanley, a shallow, superficial knife-wound to his right flank, and a nightstick fracture of his left arm, and one month was spent on regular leave. It was _three_ months before his number came up for deployment, this time to Germany. Sherlock had re-deployed ahead of him, stationed somewhere in the wide world and probably not in Germany. Which, if that was true, would make this the first deployment they had been separated.

Ten months came and passed, he took another deployment to Germany. Three months into his second deployment in Westfalen, a group came through from Camp Bastion. The guys were exhausted, worn out, and eager to put the desert behind them for a while. John was organizing supplies in the hospital when the unit arrived, so he missed them. He knew they were in, of course, word had passed along the ranks two days ago that they were getting some company, and when John heard it was his unit from Afghanistan, he'd spared a quick thought for his guys. Finishing up his restock work, he scribbled a few notes in the supply-logs for what needed re-ordering and what they were good on for a while, hung the log on the hook, and left the supply-rooms. As he locked the door behind him, he heard voices and footsteps. Not coming his way, but nearby. He smirked and brushed off his jacket after hanging the keys in the lock-box by the door. As he walked away, John wondered if any of the guys had word from Sherlock. Or if Sherlock had come with them. As he came around the next corner, he stepped around a cluster of newcomers, marked them by their dusty uniforms and tans.

"Captain." They stepped back to give him space, respectful of his higher rank. He returned their salutes with a nod as he kept on his way.

"Nice change of weather, boys?"

"Yes, sir!" They nodded enthusiastically. He chuckled and left them behind. They all looked healthy, just beat up and tired. Afghanistan could do that to you, though, the desert was a cruel mistress. No sooner had he cleared the next corner beyond the group than he heard a yell.

"John! Wait!" Ah, _there_ he was. John stopped and turned to wait. Not a minute later, Sherlock Holmes came tearing around the corner. Completely ignoring protocol, Sherlock hugged him so hard they both made a one-eighty turn and ended up against the wall.

"Knew you were in." John hugged his best friend, "Christ I missed you, Sherlock!"

"It's hell over there, John."

"And it's only going to get worse." He leaned against the tall frame of the brilliant, half-mad genius. "Christ, I'm glad you're okay!"

"I'm _fine_. How's Mrs. Hudson?"

"Absolutely fine." He chuckled and nudged Sherlock away, "Back up, will you? Give me room to breathe!"

"Sorry, sorry." Sherlock backed up. John smiled and leaned up, stole a quick kiss, and stepped past Sherlock.

"Come on, tell me everything."

"Tell you what?"

"How the guys are doing, how many times you've narrowly escaped certain death. You know, the usual."

"Oh. Well." Sherlock grinned and talked as they left the hospital together, filling him in on everything he'd missed. They'd lost a few guys, not surprising, and had a new CO. Sherlock didn't like him much, but they maintained a begrudging respect.

"You can't act out against a commanding officer, Sherlock, they'll boot you so fast you won't have a chance to breathe."

"Oh, no, I'm not that stupid." Sherlock shook his head, "There's just something about Moran that rubs me the wrong way. There's this…darkness about him, a tension. I don't trust him, but I keep it to myself."

"That's all you can do." John sighed, wondering what it was about this Major Moran that had Sherlock so unsettled. His flate-mate was good at reading people, it's what made him such a gifted detective, but he usually didn't give them much more than a passing interest. _People_ bored him, for the most part, but Sherlock was intuitive. It made him a valuable friend and a good soldier. If Sherlock didn't trust someone, for whatever reasons he had, it was usually in John's best interest to pay attention. He would, of course, make his own judgment regarding Moran when he had a chance to meet the man for himself, but John knew better than to doubt Sherlock's instincts. Right now, however, he was far more interested in taking a few minutes to be _with_ Sherlock, not any thoughts either of them might be having at the moment.

* * *

After a few months apart, John and Sherlock went to extraordinary lengths to make sure they weren't separated by service-obligations ever again. They kept in touch with their loved ones at home, and made a point to visit whenever they happened to take leave in London. John eventually encountered Sebastian Moran, and understood right away why Sherlock didn't like him much. There was something about him that itched at John's awareness, something not quite right. He took orders from Moran, kept professional distance between them, and stayed below Moran's radar. In this fashion, years passed and they moved up the ranks together.


	3. The Process of Death and Grieving

Chapter Three – The Process of Death and Grieving

::

Eight years of service came and went for John and Sherlock in the proverbial blink of an eye. From 2005 to the middle of 2009, they took more and longer deployments in Afghanistan, set into the thick of the hot action as the violence picked up. They managed to stay out of trouble fairly effectively, and continued to call and write home whenever they had time and it was calm enough to put pen to paper or pick up a phone. But the uneasy routine was disrupted one afternoon while John and Sherlock were out on patrol with half of their squad.

Ten men out on patrol, two senior officers leading the way. They handed out water and food at a local village friendly to the Allied forces trying to drive out the insurgents and bring some sort of peace to the war-ravaged Middle East. On their way back to base, they came under attack as a group of insurgents launched an ambush. They were pinned down two miles from the village and six miles from base, calls went out for air-support and assistance, but by the time anyone reached them, from the village or the base, ten men were dead. At least, that's what the commanding officers thought, that's what the newspapers and families back home were told. For two of those ten unfortunates, that wasn't entirely true.

* * *

As the cries of the wounded and dying faded, and the insurgents patrolled the bodies looking for survivors, John Watson remained absolutely still. He knew exactly where Sherlock Holmes was, two feet to his right. He knew Sherlock was alive. The sand beneath John was soaked, turned red as he bled out. He had taken a bullet to the shoulder, Sherlock had tried to tend him before being knocked out by a close blow to the head. The bullet had grazed the side of his friend's neck, but Sherlock would survive. If help came, that was. He wouldn't, but what was so bad about dying for your country and friends? Footsteps came down the path and John closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against a groan. His head was spinning, but he was still aware enough to recognize not only the tread, but the voice. Overhead, not four feet away, the leader of the insurgents spoke to whoever had arrived just now. They spoke Kurdish. Not that surprising, but not a language he would have expected to hear out here in the Afghanistan desert.

(("Eighteen are dead already, sir. There are two still living.")) The ring-leader said, (("Shall we take prisoners?"))

(("No. Who's still alive?")) Oh yes, he recognized that voice. John forced his eyes open and looked over at Sherlock, who reached for him.

"It's Moran!" Sherlock whispered. John blinked to acknowledge, it was all he could do. "Don't move!"

(("Their commanders."))

(("Ah. Yes, of course.")) Sebastian Moran chuckled and circled the two of them, "John Hamish Watson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Two of our best and brightest." John clenched his teeth and wished he had enough strength to say something. "What a pity, you held so much promise."

(("What should we do with them, sir?"))

(("I think it's time to send a message.")) Moran stood over them, eyes alight with a fire that terrified John. He felt Sherlock's fingers twitch in his hand. (("Don't worry about Watson, he's as good as dead anyway. My compliments to your man for that shot, rivalled our best. Rivaled Watson, even."))

(("And his friend?"))

(("Won't be a problem.")) John winced as Moran kicked him in the side, judging his nearness to complete, permanent oblivion, (("If he survives this."))

(("What about us, sir? My men and I?"))

(("You can disappear. This will not come back to any of us. This is just another ambush."))

There was a shuffle as the insurgents disappeared into the desert much the same way they had appeared, leaving eighteen dead soldiers and two close enough. John realized that this whole thing had been set up by Moran, but...why? If they pulled through this somehow, he'd have to sit down with Sherlock and go back over the gruesome details of this day. Moran was so sure John was as good as dead, and now he was going to kill Sherlock. Oh god, no!

"You two are pathetically loyal to each other even at the end. It's almost sweet." Moran chuckled, and John heard the click as he cocked his weapon, "Give my regards to your brother, Captain Holmes. See you in the next life." John was half-laying on Sherlock's arm at this point and holding on for dear life. Not Sherlock, please god. The last thing John remembered was the sharp crack of Moran's weapon, the full-body jerk, as Sherlock was shot like a wounded dog in the street. He had failed, for once in his life, John Watson had failed. Ten people were dead, he was one of them, because he had followed orders against the niggling little voice of reason in the back of his head that screamed at him to go home another way that day, to take another path. But he'd gone home on the same route they had taken so many times before without any problems, believing that he and his men were safe. His best friend was dead because of him, and that just wasn't something he could handle.

 _Give me a second chance to bring Moran to justice. That's all I want. Let me get restitution for my men, let me avenge Sherlock. Please, just…don_ _'_ _t_ _let this be my last legacy. God, please give me another chance. Just one chance to make things right. Don't let this be in vain for my guys, they've fought too long and too hard for this to be forgotten._

John shouldn't have worried about second chances. He and Sherlock were about to get the mother of all second chances, they just didn't know it.

* * *

John Watson died in the deserts of Afghanistan with nine of his men, targeted by one of his own commanding officers, his family found out the next day. It was a Saturday, which Greg Lestrade would recall very clearly a few months later. It was about ten o'clock in the morning when an otherwise unremarkable, quiet morning was interrupted by a sharp, loud knock on the door.

"Were we expecting anyone?" Mycroft Holmes looked up from his reading at the sound. Greg shook his head.

"I don't think so. If it was work for either of us, they would have called." He shoved to his feet and padded to the front door. He checked the peep-hole first and frowned. A man in dress-uniform stood outside on the stoop. "Huh." Pulling open the door but not sliding off the chain, he peered out of the house, "Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes, is this the residence of Mycroft Holmes?"

"It is. What do you want with him?"

"My name is Sebastian Moran." The man pulled off his cap and tucked it under one arm, smoothing his hair with one hand, "I have news about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Who are you?"

"I'm Greg Lestrade. His husband. What happened to the boys?"

"May I come in, sir?"

"Of course." He unlatched the door and held it open, "Are they alright?"

"I'm afraid not." Moran stepped into the house and Greg shut the door. Something had happened to John and Sherlock, something bad. Deep in his gut, he knew the boys were dead.

"When did it happen?" He blocked Moran's way, "How?"

"It was an ambush, they had no chance. No help could get there fast enough."

"Jesus Christ." He raked one hand through his hair, "Shit."

"I'm very sorry, Mr Lestrade." Moran touched his arm, "Were you very close?"

"Of course I was!" He felt a tightness in his chest and pressed a hand to his lips, "Oh my god." He returned to the sitting-room with Moran in tow, and as soon as he got to the couch, Mycroft was already on his feet. He knew something was wrong, and as soon as he spotted Moran, he knew exactly what.

"Gregory." Mycroft held out one hand to Greg, who went straight to his side. "It's alright."

"No! They're gone, Myc! Dead!"

"You were their commanding officer in Afghanistan." Mycroft held Greg while he broke down, addressing Moran, "The boys spoke of you often."

"Ours was not the smoothest relationship, but I appreciated their diligence and skills." Moran stood stiffly before them, "Major Watson and Captain Holmes were on patrol with eight of their men when they were pinned by enemy fire. There were no survivors. We're having the bodies shipped home on the next transport. There is no time for you to go out to escort them unless you'd like to meet the transport in Germany."

"They'll have to pass through Dusseldorf International Airport." Mycroft was calm, despite the tears, "We'll meet them there. It's the least I can do for the boys. When will they make landfall in Dusseldorf?"

"The transport will make landfall this afternoon."

"What time is it, My?" Greg raised his head, "I'm meeting that plane if it kills me!"

"It's noon. The flight should be landing at three pm." Mycroft looked at Moran, "Thank you, Colonel, for your efforts."

"I'm sorry we couldn't bring the boys home alive, they were damn heroes in their own rights. I'm so very sorry I had to give you this bad news, Mr Holmes, but I figured I owed you the news in person." Moran offered a stiff nod, "My deepest condolences to you and your families. Good day to you both." From a pocket, he pulled a cloth pouch that he set down on the coffee table. Greg got up, picked up the pouch, and saw Moran out. As soon as the door was locked, he sank against the door, slid to the floor, and sat there, holding onto the only pieces he had left of John and Sherlock.

Opening the pouch, he found their identification tags. Shaking so hard his teeth rattled, and glad it was a Saturday and he hadn't been called into work, he pulled off the secondary tags and switched them so that each set had one each of John's tags and Sherlock's tags on the same chain. Without wasting a minute more, he slid the chain of one set over his head and tucked them under his shirt, closing his hands around the cool metal discs under his clothes. He gave Mycroft the other set of tags, looping the chain over his husband's head without a word. Fetching a glass of water from the kitchen, he set the kettle on to fix tea. It reminded him of John, and he sat on the counter, wishing for another chance to see the boys together, to kiss John, to hold Sherlock, to tell the boys how much he loved them, and hating that the chances of the future had been taken away from him. When the tea was ready, he gave Mycroft one cup and they sat in silence.

"It was Moran, you know." He muttered, "Don't ask me how I know, I just…I know it was him."

"The boys never liked him, did they?"

"They never trusted him." He held the warm cup between his hands, "Oh, Christ, Mycroft, what are we going to do?!"

"Wait for the boys to come home." Mycroft hugged him. Greg sipped the tea carefully.

"You know, this is John's whole thing right here." He murmured.

"He always knew what blend, how much sugar or milk, based on your mood." Mycroft sighed, "Have you told the girls yet?"

"No, I'm not making a phone-call for something that important. This is going to break Sally's heart, you know?"

"And Doctor Hooper's." Mycroft took his hand, "Do you want company?"

"Are you kidding me?! I'm not walking in there alone!" He shook his head and gulped down the rest of his tea, "We've got a flight to catch in two hours, let's go." Setting their empty cups in the sink, Mycroft summoned a car and they drove down to New Scotland Yard. The division offices were quiet, most people were at home on the weekend, and those few who had come into work sat at their desks in silence. Had word reached them already? How? Greg didn't see Sally at her desk and staked out Jackie Billingsley's office. The television was on, a news-piece on the ambush was featured in a headline-scroll and in the broadcast itself.

"That's why it's so quiet here," Mycroft whispered. Greg nodded, wiped his hands on his denims, and knocked on the door. Sally, Jackie, and Susan were all gathered inside, watching the news. When he knocked, all three women reacted with acceptable violence.

"Greg! What are you doing here?!" Jackie was halfway to her feet, "Christ, you look like hell! Have you seen the news?"

"It's worse than that, Jackie." He pulled the tags over his head and held them out, "No survivors." As he had expected, Sally went to pieces. She had been hoping that John and Sherlock had once again outwitted the odds. No luck this time.

"I'm so sorry, my love." He gave the tags to Sally and pulled her into his arms.

"They were just kids!" Susan was absolutely beside herself, "What now?"

"Arrangements have been made and we're flying out to Dusseldorf to meet the plane." Mycroft swung his brolly, "We'll bring the boys home."

"Have you told Molly yet?"

"No, she's our next stop." Greg rubbed the heel of his hand against his jaw, his fingertips were wet from his own tears, "I need to ask her a hard favour."

"She'll do it for you, too." Susan rubbed his shoulder comfortingly, "You just let us know when the services are held, alright?"

"Will do, Sue." He hugged Susan and Jackie and left with Mycroft and Sally.

"Take the rest of the day off, Sal!" Jackie called as they left the bullpen, "You need to be at home right now!"

"Thank you, ma'am." Sally smiled bravely, despite her broken heart. It was quiet as they drove down to Saint Bart's to tell Molly Hooper. Molly reacted the same way Sally had, but when they asked her to identify the boys once they had them home, she agreed. No autopsies, of course, that wasn't necessary, and he and Mycroft would oversee the procedures.

"Of course! What happened?"

"Ambush." Mycroft twirled his brolly, shaking his head, "We think it might have been a set-up."

"On John and Sherlock?! But everyone loved them!" Molly was baffled, heartbroken. "I'll start getting things ready, then."

"Thanks, Molly. Christ, I'm sorry about this." Greg hugged Molly, who wiped away her own tears. Sally came with them when they flew out to Germany. They met the plane with an open-bed transport-truck and watched over the transfer of two sealed, flag-draped coffins. As the coffins were loaded into the truck-bed, Greg looked at Mycroft, who had remained so calm and so strong. He would be there for his husband when that last wall crumbled. They drove back across the tarmac to where their plane waited and watched as a gate-crew carefully loaded the coffins into the jet's cargo-space. There was enough room, and that's all that mattered. The flight back to London was quiet, and as soon as they had unloaded their precious cargo, it was straight back to Saint Bart's. Molly was prepared and waiting, meeting them with a Morgue-team. The hardest part of the entire affair was watching as the boys were laid on prep-tables and identified.

Once they had been identified, and Molly made note of various injuries sustained and the cause of death, they made arrangements to take the boys to Highgate Cemetery the next afternoon. Mycroft provided Molly with two clean Number 1 dress-uniforms, the gorgeous blue high-collared uniforms worn on special occasions adorned with the various medals the boys had collected during their service, including their Most Excellent Order of the British Empire and Distinguished Service Order medals, for which the boys held both a knighthood and a Companionship respectively. And John's Victoria Cross.

"They look like they're sleeping," Greg muttered, giving in to selfish want and touching the boys one last time. He leaned over the prep-table and pressed his lips to cool skin. At least he had a chance to do this in private, no one in this room would judge him at all. All he could think was that this wasn't how it happened, this wasn't _supposed_ to happen. John and Sherlock had their whole lives ahead of them, a life together. And they still had to tell the rest of the family. How on earth were they ever going to explain this to John's siblings? How did you explain something as awful and permanent as death to children too young to understand? The twins would understand, they were old enough, but the rest...it broke his heart to think of it. He would do it, though. He and Mycroft would do it.

* * *

It went without saying that Greg didn't get any sleep that night, spending most of it pacing the house between bouts of crying. Around eight, he got so restless he grabbed a jacket and his keys and left the house. But instead of driving, he bundled up and walked the streets of London for a while. The world seemed grey, and seeing so many unsuspecting civilians who had no idea of the terrible loss the city had suffered made him angry. But it wasn't their fault, after all, they really didn't know. There had been no names released in the news, so no one knew that two city sons had been lost. About an hour later, he stopped to see where his aimless, grief-stricken wanderings had brought him and realized that he was standing outside of the Baker Street flat. Oh. He suspected that Mrs Hudson didn't know. He fumbled in his pockets for another cigarette and a lighter, hoping he had one left, he'd burned through almost an entire pack over this mess. He'd probably get sick with nicotine poisoning, he was already hoarse and coughing if he breathed too deep. But it didn't matter, the boys were beyond their reach, beyond help. That hurt. Finding one lonely cigarette, he crumpled the pack and shoved it back into his pocket as he lit it, sinking onto the stoop of 221 Baker Street, leaning back against the solid wooden door and thinking of all the times he had come here looking for the boys to help out on a case or just to visit. And how he would never get that chance again. He must have dozed off because it seemed like only a few minutes later he was being shaken awake by a very concerned Mrs Hudson. John and Sherlock's landlady stood in her doorway, looking down at him, with two full trash-bags in hand and a puzzled expression on her face.

"Greg, what are you doing here?"

"Oh, sorry, Mrs Hudson." he got to his feet and stood aside to let her out, "Didn't mean to bother you."

"You're not bothering me, but it's not every night I open my door and find a Scotland Yard detective asleep on my doorstep. Would you like to come in?"

"God, yes." He stepped into the house and instinct drove him upstairs to look at a flat that would never again see it's tenants.

"Oh, John and Sherlock aren't due home for a while, Greg!" Mrs Hudson called up after him. He choked and gripped the bannister so tightly he felt splinters in his fingers.

"I know, I just…I need to see if I left something here the last time I visited." He lied shakily and unlocked the door to 221B. The flat was dark and quiet, waiting for residents who would never come home. He turned on the work-table lamp and sat down, first on the couch, but finally in John's chair. He couldn't sit still, though, and wandered the flat for a while, digging up one of Sherlock's cigarette stashes. Without thinking, he stole one and settled in John's chair with a little clay ashtray one of the kids had made for Sherlock as a Christmas present one year. And how the boys had never indulged in their bad habit around the kids. Ever. Mrs Hudson came up fifteen minutes later with tea and found him reading one of John's diaries.

"Are you alright, Greg?" Intuitive woman, she had probably noticed right away that something wasn't on with him. He looked up as she set a cup of tea on the small table beside him.

"Oh, thank you, Mrs Hudson. No. I'm...well, no, I'm not fine. I'd be lying to all of us if I said that." He looked at the diary in his hands and stroked the pages full of familiar handwriting, "I'm...I guess it had better be me you hear this from, my dear."

"The boys?"

"Something's happened, Mrs Hudson. Yesterday, I think. Maybe the day before, I can't account for the difference in time-zones like that or when it happened." he folded his hands just so, pressing shaking fingertips to his lips, "I can't think straight, I haven't slept in eighteen hours."

"Oh, dear."

"John's unit, ten of them, came under attack from insurgents. His commanding officer came by the house to give us these." He showed her the tags he had rearranged, "I changed the configuration of the tags, each set has one from each of the boys."

"No!"

"Don't worry, we brought them home. They're here." He took the kind woman's hands in his, "Please, sit down, Mrs Hudson? I'm so sorry."

"No, no! It can't be! I just spoke to them!"

"Two days ago. Yes. We all did." He shook his head, "My god, I'm so sorry. I figured you'd better hear from me than someone else."

"Oh, Greg! Those poor boys!" Mrs Hudson covered her face with her apron, "What a terrible thing!"

"We're laying the boys to rest tomorrow at Highgate Cemetery. Would you like me to arrange for someone to drive you over?"

"Would you, please? Oh, I can't imagine…"

"Don't think too hard about it, you'll only make yourself sick." He hugged Mrs Hudson, "What do you think you'll do with the flat?"

"Oh, leave it alone! No, I won't rent it to anyone else!" She shook her head violently, "No, this place is John and Sherlock's! It's just that…simple. I'll leave things just as they are."

"God bless you, Mrs Hudson."

"Those boys saved me, they made this a safe place for me to live." She wiped her eyes, "Oh, all the people they saved! The brave things they did together! And those cases for you?"

"I know. I'm going to miss having them around." He sighed, rubbing his hands together, "I'm sorry I had to give you such bad news, Mrs Hudson."

"I'm glad you told me before I found out some other way." She smiled bravely and patted his hand, "You're a good soul, Greg Lestrade." After a quiet, contemplative cup of tea, Greg decided to go home and Mrs Hudson called him a cab so he wouldn't have to walk back to Kensington. Once he got home, to find Mycroft waiting for him and all necessary arrangements made, so all there was left to do was swallow new tears and sleep if he could.

* * *

The next morning dawned cloudy, grey, and foggy. Perfect weather for the mood. Getting out of bed was so much harder than it should have been and the hot shower couldn't get rid of the chill in his bones. Getting dressed in his nicest suit, he sent a car to Baker Street to fetch Mrs Hudson and set off for Highgate Cemetery with Mycroft when the time was right. Greg realized how quickly word had gotten around when several members of Sherlock's Homeless Network showed up to pay their respects. Sherlock's family and John's siblings were there, of course, and Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper came, Sally stood by between Greg and Mycroft, and he saw a number of Yarders among the mourners, mostly people from Homicide. He saw Rick Holliday standing with Susan Brealy and Jackie Billingsley.

"Jesus, the boys really did know everyone, didn't they?"He murmured as the priest gave a benediction. Melissa had come with Mark and the kids, devastated by the thought that two of the city's most promising sons had been taken from them far too soon. After the final benediction had been said, the gathered mourners departed, each one leaving a rose on the coffins. Violet and Siger departed with the children and soon, the only people left at the grave-side of New Scotland Yard's best crack-team of consultants were Greg, Mycroft, Sally, and Molly. The girls paid their final respects and left together, offering emotional and physical support to each other. As the girls left, Greg stopped Sally.

"Wait, Sally."

"Yes, sir?"

"You're alright? You've been involved in this from the start. If it's been hard for me, I can't imagine how you're handling things."

"I'm…managing. I'll make things work, sir, don't worry about me." She smiled bravely, "He wouldn't want me to worry about the what-ifs and maybes forever."

"Go on home, love, get some rest and give your heart a bit of peace."

"I was up all last night listening to some of Sherlock's recordings, it really helps."

"Not as good as the real thing, but good enough for the purpose." He sighed and looked at the side-by-side headstones, "All we can do is move on. Never forget them, but move on with them in our memories."

"Yes, sir." He knew it would be quiet around The Yard for the next week or so as co-workers came to grips with a harsh reality. It would probably take a while for him to stop calling or texting the boys' phone-numbers to ask for help on a case or stop by the flat. He would stop by for Mrs Hudson's sake, of course, but it would be so hard to know that there was no one in the upstairs rooms at Baker Street.

::

Following the ambush that killed ten British soldiers, Mycroft Holmes put a flag on Sebastian Moran's records and started digging. If Moran was really involved in the attack that had killed John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, he wanted to know every gritty detail. He would save the information for future use, but he would be more than happy to see to the man's discharge from the Army if he toed the wrong line. It was said in the halls of Westminster Palace and MI6 that the worst thing you could do was put yourself on Mycroft's radar for doing something stupid, and threatening the lives of his loved ones was a first-class ticket to a world of hurting.


	4. Holding Hands With Death

Chapter Four – Holding Hands With Death

::

John Watson remembered dying, he remembered it as clearly as any other recent memory. He remembered where he had died, who he'd been with, _how_ he had died, and who had killed him. So why, then, why in Hell's black name was he currently sitting at the moment next to his own headstone. Sherlock Holems sat next to him, the two of them looking up at the few stars visible through the trees and light-pollution.

"Where are we again?"

"Highgate Cemetery, if I had to guess by the smell." Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "Can't you smell that?"

"I'm aware of what a cemetery smells like, Sherlock, this one's a bit different. The trees are good at masking the stench."

"For most people." His flat-mate, patrol-partner, and best friend wrinkled his nose, "Do we agree that this is probably the most bizarre thing we've ever experienced?"

"Well, I got shot in the shoulder by a sniper, _you_ were shot by Sebastian Moran, who, by the way, is a fucking _dead man_ if I ever get my hands on him. We both died, were shipped to Germany once they got hold of our bodies, picked up and shipped to London by your _brother_ , identified and cleaned up by Molly Hooper, and buried this morning. How did we survive that?"

"More importantly, why do we _remember_ everything that happened to us after we died?" Sherlock got to his feet and borrowed a shovel from a nearby open plot, waiting for a casket. With the shovel, they dug out enough fill-dirt from Sherlock's grave to create a hole into which they dumped their uniform jackets. John had the foresight to save their medals, which he carefully concealed in a pocket, and they filled in and smoothed over both of their now-empty graves to leave no obvious sign that they had been disturbed. As John leaned the borrowed shovel against the nearby headstone, he caught scent of something on the wind and straightened.

"Sherlock, we've got company."

"It's my brother."

"Mycroft? What in Hell's name is he doing out here?" John turned, a bit concerned. He could hear the racing of Mycroft's heart, he wasn't quite in a panic but he _was_ worried. John knew that because of the thoughts flitting through the man's head. "Why can I hear him?"

"Hmm?"

"I can hear your brother _thinking_."

"You've always been a fast learner, John." Mycroft's voice preceded him around the nearby corner, "I'm not surprised you've picked that up in your afterlife as well."

"My what?"

"You have questions, I'm sure, both of you."

"You are _far_ too calm for this, Myc." John circled the man he saw as a brother, "Well, about as calm as you _can_ be."

"It's a family trait, Doctor Watson." Mycroft smiled as he twirled his brolly, "Come along, you two."

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to a safe-house here in London. I have friends who will take over your care until such a time as you feel it is safe to reveal yourselves to our friends and family."

"How many people know about this?"

"No one. Anthea and my drivers are, of course, contractually obligated to maintain a certain level of confidentiality about matters regarding the family."

"I guess this counts." John sighed, "God, I need a shower, sleep, clean clothes and…something to eat."

"You shall have those things. Come on, John." Mycroft took him by the hand, "I knew Sherlock was capable, but your statistics were so unreliable."

"I'm a rogue statistic." He couldn't help himself.

"Very clever, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes, snickering. It was a quiet drive from Highgate Cemetery to a house in Chelsea.

"How long have vampires been in the Holmes family?" John had to ask.

"Several generations. But not all members of the family are affected."

"It's ancient family history for the Watsons, it's been…three generations since the last recorded vampire?" He ruffled his hair, which had turned completely gray - well, silver, to be polite - at some point, "There might have been more, but no one put them up."

"Careful records are kept of all vampires in the British Empire, their names would have been marked." Mcyroft looked at him, "So, you know, then?" John nodded. He knew alright, but had never in a million years expected himself to be the next legacy. It did give him that second chance he'd begged for back in the desert, so he wasn't complaining too much. The lifestyle change would take a bit of getting used to, what change it required. He knew he'd still be able to eat, sleep, and function normally, but he wouldn't need as much sleep, he wouldn't have to breathe, and speed and greater stamina was a gift to him. Greater strength, as well, he'd have to be very careful not to hurt anyone or break anything on accident. A weakness might be due from his cause of death, but nothing to keep him out of action for too long if he wore himself out.

* * *

When they reached the house in Chelsea, John spent a moment standing on the mews street, looking up both sides at the windows of the houses here, quietly ignoring the itch in the back of his throat and the way his mouth watered at the scent of so much living blood in such close quarters.

"This seems a risky place to raise a few fledgeling vampires." He leaned his head back, listening to the sounds around him, "There's a few Yarders three blocks over, and…I'll be damned, Greg's out."

"Where is he?" Sherlock stood by him, one hand on his arm.

"He's close. He has no idea." John sighed, "And he won't. We can't tell him, Sherlock. We can't reveal ourselves until we're safe."

"Of course not." Sherlock hugged him, "Come inside, your eyes just turned black." Suddenly, the hair on the back of John's neck prickled and he heard something in the distance that he would never have heard before now.

"They need help." He murmured, running inside the house. In a bedroom closet, following his nose to a room that smelled more like him, he found clean clothes. Pulling on a pair of denims, a clean shirt, and a gray hoodie, he pulled on clean socks and a pair of Doc Martens, laced them up quickly, fetched a leather jacket, and ran out of the house again before anyone could stop him. Sherlock was right behind him in very similar garb. If no one looked at their faces too closely, they'd pass up well for a pair of Sherlock's Homeless Network.

"John, where are we _going_? This is a terrible idea!"

"Making Greg's job a bit easier. After the last few days he's had, I don't think a gift or two would go amiss." He kept running, following his instincts towards a crime-scene three blocks away. They found Greg and Sally running down an escaped suspect, and John skidded. "Sherlock?"

"Allow me." His tall friend grinned, a peek of his new sharp fangs visible in the ambient light.

"Just don't hurt him, right?"

"That's not my job." Sherlock winked and vanished in the suspect's wake, moving faster than their mortal friends ever could. It didn't take long for the winded Yarders to reach John, and they were too focused on finding their suspect to really pay attention to him. He used that distraction to steal Greg's handcuffs, get them to Sherlock, who had run the suspect down in an alleyway and was holding him still by sitting on his back. Throwing Sherlock the handcuffs, he ran back to where Greg and Sally had stopped to catch their breath and get a heading. He stopped at the end of the block from them and walked down at a casual pace, knowing they would see him that way. John knew that once he was done with his good deed for the night, he and Sherlock would need to feed properly. The smell of familiar blood was driving him a little crazy. As Greg and Sally chatted in low voices no other passersby would hear, but John heard perfectly, he stopped at Greg's shoulder and carefully tapped the detective on the shoulder.

"Sorry to bother you, mate." He said quietly, "Got a smoke, sir?"

"Hmm? Oh, christ! I didn't see you!" Greg blinked at him, startled that someone had snuck up on him like that, "Jesus! Yeah, hang on." He shook his head, rustling through his pockets, "Here. Hey, you, uh. Sorry to bother _you_ , son. You haven't seen a fellow run through here, have you?"

"What's he look like? I see lots of people on these streets." He shrugged and shook out two cigarettes, sliding a fifty-pence piece into the pack for the second one, and borrowed Greg's lighter, "Thanks, mate."

"Uh, guy's about...your height, actually. Dark hair, real short, fair skin with bad acne scars on the forehead and nose. Green eyes."

"Left eye's lazy, got a slight limp in the right leg from a bad-healed old break. Yeah. Seen him. Went that way." John thumbed over his shoulder in the direction Sherlock had gone. "Steal somethin', sir?"

"Killed someone. I've about had enough death for the month, but it's the job."

"Someone you know die?"

"A few close friends."

"Oh. Holmes and Watson, then?" He sniffed, "Yeah, the Network heard about that real quick. Bad business, that was."

"I guess you would know, wouldn't you?" Greg rolled his eyes, "Half of you showed up at the bloody grave-side service!"

"Well, sure we did." John heard Sherlock coming, "You'll find your man, Detective Inspector. He shouldn't be a problem after you put him away."

"God, I hope so." Greg had taken a cigarette for himself and John wished he could tell his friend the truth. Adrenaline and nicotine dampened his desire to feed, he noticed, which was interesting and useful. "You got a name, son?"

"Friends call me Skip."

"Right. Thanks for your help, Skip." Greg nodded, shaking hands with him, "If I need a hand, mind if I hunt you down?"

"Sure. I'll be around the streets. Shouldn't be hard to find me." He smiled and reminded himself to get word out to the Network as soon as possible about his new nickname. Time to adjust to being a vampire and live on the streets for a bit. Once Greg and Sally were gone, he waited for Sherlock on a nearby rooftop.

"Nice move, John."

"Stay dead a bit longer, Sherlock. Time to find new nicknames and maybe change the way we look a bit."

"What'd you tell him your name was?"

"Skip." He shrugged, "Poor man didn't know it was me. I mean, he'll be seeing my face in every short, blonde-haired man he meets for a while, so that's fine. Hungry?"

"Famished. Shall we?"

"Where on earth would we _go_?"

"There's a few clubs around town that cater to our kind. I know the owner of one of them."

"Let me guess, you did them a favor once?"

"Something like that." Sherlock grinned, "I guarantee our secret is safe with our new kin."

"It had better be." He muttered. They used the rooftops to get where they were going, an old and exhilarating way to get around London, and by the time they stood outside a non-descript building, John was hoarse with a necessary urge. The establishment was in the basement, small but not over-crowded.

"This is one of the smaller establishments."

"What's this place called?"

"This is Sunrise."

"Ironic name." John snickered, "Oh, what did you do with the perp?"

"I left a little gift for Greg."

"You're a right git, you know that?"

"Why is this news to you?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. They paid a small cover-fee and found a corner table in the club. It was more like a cafe or a restaurant than a real _club_ , but the owner appeared at their table in a human heartbeat, all smiles and genuine delight to see Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you scoundrel! You look just like you dug your way out of your own grave!"

"I did that, Laurena." Sherlock smiled sweetly at the woman, rising to kiss the back of her hand, "My friend and I need your services tonight."

"Yes, yes, I can see that. It is a delight to see you among us at last, Doctor Watson."

"My pleasure, madam." John mimicked Sherlock's polite gestures, "It's nice to be here outside of work."

"It's a joy to have you both!" Laurena kissed him on the cheek, "Make yourselves at home, I'll be right back!" John sat on the inside curve of the bench, giving himself a completely unobstructed view of the venue and a straight shot to the door.

"Old habits, eh?" Sherlock grinned as he shrugged off and hung up his jacket, "Here, I'll take your coat."

"Thanks, mate." John sighed and got a feel for the place, "I'd forgotten about Laurena Roddick."

"She didn't forget you."

"Apparently not." He chuckled, "So, how long do you think it's going to take Greg?"

"Mycroft won't say anything. It could take months." Sherlock shrugged and drummed his fingertips on the table-top. Laurena came back in short order with two glasses, setting one each before them.

"There you are, boys!" She tucked the tray under her arm, "Any word you have for the Network, Sherlock?"

"Just that if anyone from NSY comes nosing for leads, send them for Skip and Scotty."

"Of course! You're not going to be living on the streets, are you?"

"For a bit." Sherlock sipped at his glass, and John took a careful sip of _his_. Oh, yes. He knew a proper feeding was still needed, but this method of serving blood to vampires was good for taking off the initial edge. John knew that blood-donation centers with a surplus stock would sell to private buyers for places like Sunrise and for home-use. Once Laurena was gone to tend to her other customers, John remembered something.

"Oh, Sherlock?" When on earth would they return to Baker Street?

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up at him, read that thought, and nodded, "Oh. Hmm. Likely around the same time we reveal ourselves to our friends."

"Let's try to _not_ give Mrs. Hudson a heart-attack, if you don't mind?"

"I make no promises. After all, we're supposed to be _dead_." Sherlock looked into his nearly-empty glass, "Time to find a good teacher."

"Cheers." He finished off what was left of his glass and licked his fingertips, "That will take some getting used to."

"Hmm." Sherlock just smiled and they left a few bills under their glasses to pay. Collecting their coats, John followed Sherlock, who didn't leave Sunrise, instead heading for the back of the space. Upstairs, it turned out, was a much _larger_ club venue, a far more traditional club. John laughed.

"Jesus, Sherlock!"

"You've never been up here, have you?"

"Nope."

"Come along." Sherlock grinned, took him by the hand, and dragged him into the club after handing their coats off. The rest of the night passed in a blur, with one of Laurena's senior staff teaching them the ins and outs of proper feeding technique. John had a head-start on reading signals and cues with his medical background, and he noticed that right around the time the blood lost it's sweetness was when it was usually a good idea to stop. Sherlock was already a picky eater, which made it fairly simple for _him_ as well.

* * *

While John and Sherlock got a head-start on their new lives, Greg Lestrade was scratching his head. He had chased down and lost a suspect earlier, but luck had been with him and one of Sherlock's Homeless had come up good on leads. A friendly, youngish fellow named Skip had helped them out. Greg knew it was the recent loss of John Watson that had him seeing the charismatic soldier in every blonde on the street, Skip could have been John's twin. He didn't think much of it, though, he had a suspect to catch. Or, at least, pick up. Someone had left him a nice little gift in an alleyway behind a rubbish-skip. Hand-cuffed and unconscious, he'd found his suspect with a note pinned to his jacket.

 _ **For Detective Inspector Lestrade**_

Someone had stolen _his_ hand-cuffs, it was anyone's guess when that had happened, caught up with the suspect, subdued him, and left him to be collected by New Scotland Yard. Before he could stop himself, Greg found himself sending a text to Sherlock's phone.

 **So, just solved a case thanks to your people. Youngish kid named Skip, kind of looks like John a bit. I guess two of yours were in the area when we went to serve Jeremy Plaith, who will spend the rest of his miserable short life behind bars now, but we caught our man and someone stole my hand-cuffs. I got them back, of course, they were already on Mr. Plaith. I wish you could have helped out, mate. You'd have loved this. – GL**

It was hard to know he wouldn't be getting a response, but it felt right to send that text. With Jeremy Plaith in custody and the night's case closed, he went home. Mycroft was asleep, of course, so he made as little noise and commotion as he could. Some job had called Mycroft out earlier that night, but that was kind of normal for them, so he hadn't bothered to ask. It wasn't his business until his husband decided to make it so. He missed the boys, but he would move on with time. If he could only shake the feeling that they had missed something. Someone had underestimated the Baker Street Duo, it just stood to wait and see how. Cheating death was a pretty tall order.


	5. An Interlude of Feline Purr-suasion

**So, just a brief little interlude. I figure with all of the awfulness I just put them through, Greg and Mycroft deserve a bit of domestic "fluff" (I didn't MEAN to pun, but there it is) and a little casefic never hurt, either. I'll be back to chronicling the boys' misadventures in the next chapter. PLEASE REVIEW! I have no idea if people even like this, you keep reading/liking/following, but...reviews, people! I need them. Leave a word or two, just don't destroy me, please? That's no fun for anyone. Love all my readers! Stay turned, dearies!**

* * *

Chapter Five – An Interlude of Feline Purr-suasion

::

Two days after the funeral, Greg was on the couch, dozing, when he heard his mobile ringing. Before he could get up to answer it, Mycroft picked it up. "This is the phone of Greg Lestrade, Homicide. Who is calling?" There was a pause, and Greg cracked an eye open to find Mycroft standing by the couch, "Oh, hello, Jackie. Yes, he's right here. Just a moment." He held out the phone, "It's Detective Billingsley."

"Christ, there must be a case." He groaned and reached for the phone, checking the time, "Let me talk to her." Once Mycroft handed him the phone, he coughed, cleared his throat, "Jackie?"

 _"_ _Greg!_ _Sorry to bother you at home._ _"_ Jackie sounded frantic, _"Are you busy right now?"_

"Uh, no. What's on?"

 _"_ _We_ _got a call for a body found on_ _Ansdell Terrace_ _."_

"What do we have?" Greg rubbed his eyes, clearing his throat again. Ansdell Terrace was literally right up the street, he could _walk_ to the scene, "Who's already on scene? Who took the call?"

 _"_ _Rick Holliday was the responding officer, so he would have been first on scene. I've already sent out your team."_

"Fine. I'll go take a look. What's the address?" He was up and hunting down his shoes, coat, and badge. Jackie wouldn't have called him at home, when he'd just gotten off working back-to-back cases, without a damn good reason. Jackie gave him the address, but swore up and down that he didn't have to take this case if he didn't feel up to it. Greg shoved his feet into the first pair of shoes he could find. "No, I've got this, Jackie."

 _"_ _Just don't scare the constables, Greg. I can only imagine you look a fright._ _I don't think you've slept since the funeral."_

"That's a nice way of putting it." He muttered as he cradled the phone against his ear, "Christ. My hands won't stop _shaking_ , I guess it's a good thing the scene's so close."

 _"_ _Mm. You know I can_ make _you stay home, right?"_

"No need for dramatics, Jackie." He looked at his watch again, "I'll come in. I could probably use a distraction."

 _"_ _You're a stronger man than I would be in your shoes, Greg. God bless you."_

"The boys would do the same for me." He confirmed the address and hung up with Jackie. Pocketing his phone, he washed his face until he looked less frightful and went out to the living-room, where Mycroft met him with his coat and a paper take-away cup of coffee. They kept take-away cups in the house for the mornings they had time for a cup of coffee but not the time to stay home and drink it.

"A little casual for a case, isn't it?"

"I don't give two shits if I walked out in sweats, and I think Jackie would understand if I'd done just that." He sighed, "Uh, badge?" Mycroft tucked his badge onto his belt and helped him into his coat.

"Come home as soon as you can."

"I don't plan on staying out longer than I absolutely have to. It's already half-five." He sighed and headed for the door with the coffee in hand. Mycroft stopped him for two more things: an umbrella for the rain that had started, and his Glock 17. "Oh, thanks for that." He absentmindedly tucked the pistol into the conceal-carry holster tucked into the back of his jeans, where it was easy to hide under clothes, pulling the tee-shirt he was wearing down over the holster.

"Be safe." Mycroft leaned in for a quick kiss as he left the house, "Go save the world."

"That's your job, My. _My_ job is saving London from itself, remember?" He opened the umbrella and headed off into the rain, "At least the weather matches my mood."

"Good luck, Greg!" Mycroft watched from the stoop until he was out of sight. It wasn't hard to find the scene, it was quite literally right up the street. Not three hundred fucking yards from his own house, even! Jesus.

"Just follow the lights." He muttered, taking a deep gulp of coffee. He coughed again and grimaced. The boys' tags sat cool against his skin and he clenched his jaw against another bout of tears. He had work to do, it was time to focus. Judging by the looks he got from his crew, no one had expected him. He rolled his eyes as he ducked under the tape, "Jesus Christ, I live down the street, guys! I'd be a damn fool to turn it down! Now, had this been across town a bit, I'd have words for Billingsley. You're in luck, but don't try my patience. Where are we, what do we have?"

"Uh, this way, sir. Sergeant Donovan and Mr. Anderson are already inside."

"I figured they would be. Lead on." He took another sip of coffee, "Christ, I hate my life."

"Everything alright, sir?" A young constable asked tamely, "You look a bit not good."

"Hmm. Where's Holliday? Is he still around?"

"In his car, sir. Want me to send him in?"

"Yes, thank you." Greg walked up the steps to the house in question, stood under the eaves to shake rain from his umbrella and close it, and flicked his coat and ruffled his hair to shake off the few drops that had made their way under the black shield. Inside, he met Sally, who looked about as good as he felt, and that wasn't too top form. "You alright, Sal?"

"Hanging in there, sir."

"That's my girl." He handed her his coffee, "You need some of that, love. Mycroft's looking into the incident reports and going back over Moran's service-records."

"Was it staged?"

"Most likely." He shrugged out of his coat but held onto the umbrella, "Come on, then." The scene was a downstairs bathroom and Greg groaned when he saw the body. The victim had been killed in the shower-stall, and propped up in a sitting-position in the corner of said stall. A length of rope had been tied around his neck and strung across the space to the curtain-rod, but the victim hadn't been hung. Strangled, but not hung, the curtain-rod wouldn't have supported that kind of weight.

"Why is it _always_ the fucking bathroom?! Do murderers have no creativity? Jesus." He rubbed his jaw with one hand, well-aware that his hand was shaking, "God, I wish we had Sherlock." He didn't even realize he'd said the words until they were out of his mouth."Sorry."

"Why didn't you hand this over to Dimmock, sir?"

"Because I live a minute and a half down the street." He paced the bathroom scene, "You know what, I'm cheating. I don't have Sherlock to call on, but I've got the next best thing. Hang on." Pulling out his mobile-phone, he snapped a few pictures of the scene, fired them off to Mycroft. It didn't take long for his husband to call him, he answered right away. "Give me what you've got." As he'd hoped, Mycroft fired off a series of perfect Holmesian deductions, practically solving the case from just down the street, and Greg heaved a sigh of relief, "God, I've been around you too long, My. I saw that, but I figured a second opinion wouldn't hurt."

 _"You're a smart man, Gregory Lestrade. That's why I married you."_

"You're good to me, My. Thanks for your help. Be home in a bit." He cleared his throat as he hung up and looked at Sally, "So, that was easy."

"What are we looking at?"

"David McMullin, age 40, lives alone, few friends. No family. Keeps two cats."

"We…didn't see any cats." Sally frowned, "How do you know he had cats?"

"Small scratches on his hands and forearms and on his neck. These were all play-scratches, these weren't intentional. And there's hair-fibers on his clothes." He used the umbrella for a brace and crouched beside the body as he pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, "Get me a piece of clear tape, love?"

"Sure thing." Sally disappeared, coming back a minute later with a roll of clear packing-tape, and he ripped off a piece to collect some of the hair-fibers he'd seen on Mr. McMullin's clothes, which he then secured to a small evidence card and slid into an envelope, writing down what the sample was, who had taken it, and where it had been taken from. He also dated the sample. Leaving the bathroom, he combed the rest of the flat for evidence of McMullin's cats. There were plenty of pictures, so he had obviously been very fond of his cats, a pair of gorgeous adopted strays. A blue-eyed Tortie calico with beautiful markings and a white blaze on her chin and chest, and a silvery Russian Blue. "Gorgeous animals." He saw evidence of the cats in the apartment, and wondered if they'd slipped out in the chaos.

* * *

Going upstairs, he asked if anyone had seen two cats run out the door. No, not out the front. He went out to the patios to see if the cats had gone into hiding in the back. No luck. Their cages weren't missing, but that didn't rule out someone stealing the cats. But why? What motive would someone, who _knew_ McMullin, have for kidnapping his pets? After working over the scene as best he was able inside, he went out and stood on the sidewalk, holding the umbrella with the crook of his arm as he lit a he stood at the end of the street, mulling over the evidence and possible motives, he was aware of a faint mewling sound. His attention switched in a heartbeat and he spun towards the sound.

There was a small gate behind him, beyond which lay a private residential car-park. Greg leaned over the fence and scoured the area for any sign of the source of that noise. Tucked against the wheel-well of the car parked beyond, sitting at a haphazard angle, was a blue plastic refuse-bag. It twitched and moved, and the sound continued. "Christ! The cats!" he gasped. Several people turned at his outburst, but he ignored them all as he figured out how to jump the fence and fetch up the bag. "Gloves!" He yelled over his shoulder, "I need gloves!" Someone handed a pair of gloves over the fence and he yanked them on before he picked up the bag. It heaved and swayed as the unwilling occupants reacted to the new stimulus and noise. The car had mostly protected them from the elements. He carefully handed the bag to Rick Holliday, who held it at arm's length while he hopped back over the fence.

"Jesus, sir! What's in here?!"

"Mr. McMullin's cats. Start questioning the neighbors. Someone _had_ to have seen something, heard something." He pointed out the target houses he wanted his crew to hit for questioning, "Get people talking. See if McMullin had any partners or acquaintances with a grudge to bear and a serious dislike of his cats."

"Where are you going, sir?"

"To cage the cats and get them out of here." He headed back into the house, grabbed the two cages, and headed for one of the empty bedrooms. Once inside, he locked all doors, blocking every possible exit, and opened the bag, freeing the two freaked-out inhabitants. "Easy, kids." He stood by the door, watching them flail and riot. After a while, he dusted the carpet with cat-nip and let nature run it's course. Distracted by cat-nip, the pair was soon on a kitty-high and he coaxed them into their cages. Or tried to, but they decided that the stranger who had saved them was far more interesting and he ended up sitting against the wall as they explored him, "Boy, you two are lucky I like cats." He chuckled and scratched the Tortie behind her ears, "You're cute." The Tortie's name was Lucky, short for Miss Kitty Happy-Go-Lucky, and the Russian Blue was named Balto. McMullin had loved his cats, obviously, and they were used to strangers, not terribly skittish once they realized that Greg wanted to help them, not harm them.

He took their collars for evidence, knowing that the suspect had to have grabbed them by the scruff to capture them, so there might be DNA on the collars, They were added to the hair-fibers he had collected earlier, along with the rope used to strangle Mr. McMullin. He was still playing with the cats when Mycroft arrived to see how things were going and committed to memory the exact expression on his husband's face when he walked in to find Greg sitting on the floor of the reception room dangling a bit of ribbon for Lucky. Balto was content to play with a cat-nip mouse Rick Holliday had found for her and was chasing it around the room as she batted it back and forth with her paws.

"Greg! What in God's name are you _doing_? I thought you were working?!"

"Oh, hi!" He smiled up at Mycroft, "Sorry, this _is_ working. I'm staying out of the way, _not_ having a complete emotional melt-down of sectioning standards, and keeping the cats company. Care to join?"

"You...like cats." This was apparently news to his husband, which amused Greg greatly.

"I like dogs, cats, just about anything fuzzy on four legs." He shrugged, "Say hello to Lucky and Balto. Friendly cats, as you can see. Lucky!" Greg laughed as Lucky went to introduce herself to Mycroft, weaving between his feet and purring as she rubbed against his legs, "Well, I guess Lucky likes you okay."

"What happens to the cats now that David McMullin is deceased?"

"Not a clue, but I can't handle the thought of abandoning them to Animal Control." He watched, chewing on his bottom lip, as Mycroft reached down with one hand and picked up Lucky, who didn't mind the handling at all and decided to show a bit more affection as she rubbed his chin with her head, "Aww. Forget about _me_ liking cats! Speak for yourself, Doctor Doolittle!" God bless him, Mycroft did not miss the pop-culture reference and blushed adorably. "You're an animal-charmer, Mr. Holmes. Just like your little brother."

"Of course! Don't you remember Redbeard?"

"Oh, that crazy dog! Sure I remember!" He sighed and got up, batting cat-hair from his jeans, or trying to, "The boys were devastated when he died. Hell, so were we."

"Lucky reminds me a bit of John."

"And Balto of Sherlock? Yeah, me too." He folded his arms, "Does this mean we get to give these two cats a loving home and more spoiling than they can handle?"

"Of course it does. And no one is going to mind at all."

"Hell if they do. My scene, my claim." He collected the cages and they rounded up the cats and everything belonging _to_ them they could find. Most of the cat things had been collected for evidence, but he staked claim and pulled those things away, "None of this goes to evidence aside from the collars, which they will be getting new ones anyway. I'm taking the cats and giving them a new home."

"Yes, sir." There was very little objection, Sally Donovan just smirked.

* * *

With a heavy heart, Greg released the scene to forensics and headed for the office to get the paperwork out of the way. Word had gotten out fast that he wasn't to be bothered for anything, so he got his work done fairly quickly. What had started out as an awful day had turned into a not-so-terrible day, and he had two affectionate cats and a loving husband to go home to, so there wasn't _too_ much to complain about. However, when a thought struck him to ask the boys for advice, he remembered what had happened and fiddled with the tags around his neck.

"Don't worry, boys, whoever did this to you will pay for it." He made a promise out loud as he looked at a picture someone had taken of the boys standing in front of a Humvee in full gear, wearing identical bright smiles and flashing the camera a victory sign. It was a few years old, but it told so much of their story, it was one of his favorite pictures. There was another one in the same frame of John sitting on Sherlock's shoulders, the two of them splattered with mud from head to toe from an Armed Forces Mud Run they'd taken part in a while back, same bright, goofy smiles.

After doing as much work as he could get out of the way before Billingsley kicked him out, Greg headed home around eight pm. It was a quiet night in, Mycroft had cooked, the cats kept them entertained, having adjusted _very_ quickly and very well to their new home. Mycroft said it was because they were still together. There were bound to be incidents, as was routine with pets, but nothing they couldn't handle. Lucky and Balto were both house-broken, and enjoyed being indoor-outdoor cats. It didn't take long to realize that McMullin had somehow toilet-trained the cats to use a regular human toilet to do their business, including lifting and lowering the lid, and flushing. Smart damn cats.


End file.
